


There's no Time to Catch Your Breath

by Neyiea



Category: Glanni Glæpur í Latabæ, LazyTown
Genre: Enemies to ???, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Rough Sex, unlikely allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Glanni has moved on to smaller, more manageable cons since his failure in Lazy Town.Íþróttaálfurinn somehow manages to ruin all his carefully laid plans anyways.





	1. Here Comes Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, I'm not gonna lie I meant for this to be a short smut-fic, three chapters tops, at first but then I got carried away and decided to just go with the flow, slave to my muse that I am. My break period is over and I've still got some other projects I'm fiddling with, so update speed for this may be a little sporadic. 
> 
> Things to know: Tags may change a little as the story progresses (talking more about depictions of violence than anything else, I don't anticipate any other archive warnings coming into play), I'll write reminders in the notes section if they do. Personally I headcanon that Glanni's thought process regarding his body are along the lines of 'it's mine to do with as I please and if it gets me closer to my end goal then I will use it to my full advantage' which is going to be fairly evident in the first several chapters at least. 
> 
> I think that's about it for now, my dears, I hope I haven't fumbled with Glanni or Íþróttaálfurinn's characterization too much. Enjoy!

Glanni has his new target exactly where he wants him. He had heard rumours that the only son of Liar Town’s recent nouveau riche family, whose mother now collects tacky but expensive art pieces and whose father is rumoured to use pure gold utensils, still hangs around the bar he used to frequent in the cheaper, more accessible side of town, obviously expecting his status to be enough to protect him from the occasional unfriendly bar-fight. Probably even not expecting that someone might choose the setting to prey upon him. 

Oh, Glanni is going to have so much fun with this. He’s going to walk right through the front door of Jóhann’s ostentatious but frustratingly secure mansion tonight, and in the early morning he’s going to rob his parents blind. 

All he really needs now is an invite, which shouldn’t be too difficult. Jóhann was practically eating out of his palm already, and that was before Glanni had trailed one of his feet up the young man’s thigh and casually rested the sole of a high-heeled boot in between his legs.

Jóhann instinctively bucks up into the pressure before he can think better of it, and Glanni smiles, all indulgent sweetness, as he blushes.

“I’m going to grab us another drink,” he says before leaving the table, working hard to conceal his smirk when Jóhann whimpers at the loss of pressure.

This entire job has been far too easy. He’d been expecting at least one more hour of carefully staged flirting and a couple more drinks before he reached this point. It just went to show him what he could do when he put the effort into it. Amping up his charisma and charm to levels he’s never bothered with before had been the first step in carefully constructing a believable, likeable persona. Swapping out his regular makeup—the nude lipstick and cool-toned eye shadow—for deep red lips, a sharp cat-eye, and mascara had given his face a sultry look. His carefully chosen outfit of high heeled leather boots that allowed him to tower over anyone in the room, fitted black pants, and a soft, loosely knit grey sweater all worked towards completing the look of his new persona; a tantalizing, intriguing out-of-towner just looking for a good time.

There were a couple surprises hidden under his layers too, and not all of them were as dangerous as the knife concealed in one boot or as functional as the lock-picks in the other. He had to be prepared to take this as far as was necessary, after all.

He approaches the bar with a swing in his step, smiling wide at the bartender. “One virgin cosmopolitan, and a double scotch on the rocks.”

He turns around as the bartender begins to pull out the necessary glasses, eyes settling back on his target who smiles brightly and fiddles his hands impatiently against the table, as if he can barely stand to stay in place when Glanni is not with him. 

Glanni resists the urge to roll his eyes at the needy behaviour, instead winking coyly before turning back around and leaning, just so, against the counter, the small of his back arching, his ankles crossed gracefully over each other.

The boots had been a big investment, not that he had paid for them, but stealing them from a high-class boutique in Greedy Town had been a bit of a risk considering the security measures generally used in that particular district. But they did make his legs and ass look phenomenal, so they had definitely been worth it. 

He takes the drinks with a grateful smile, tells the bartender, “put them on Jóhann’s tab,” and turns back around.

His target looks absolutely besotted at the sight of Glanni returning to him. He’d probably be a generous lover, very giving, very eager to concede to any of Glanni’s whims, absolutely desperate to have Glanni stay the night. Not Glanni’s type at all, really, but he’ll willingly fake whatever he has to in order to get that much closer to his end goal. He will be getting rich tonight, end of story, whether or not he could plaster his target with enough drinks to make him pass out before sex was a different tale all together. If so, great, less work for him. If not, no big deal, he’d just have to lay back and think of all the cold hard cash that would be his. 

And then, after the feeling of success coated him like a blanket, maybe he could finally put the utter failure that was Lazy Town behind him.

Oh, how he shudders to even think about what an utter disaster that turned out to be. He’s a coward, he’ll admit it, but it’s not just terror that churns his gut when he thinks about that damned elf popping up from every corner he’d meant to hide behind with a far too cheery ‘hello’, there’s a singeing anger as well. He’d lost too much to that town, and his pride wouldn’t allow him to take a hit like that again. He’d play it safe for the foreseeable future. No actual endangerment of lives, no schemes that involved too many people. 

Hence the current plan.

He actually has to make some effort to smooth his face out and consciously wipe away the frown and furrowed brows that always accompanied the memory of his greatest failure. He paints a smile across his lips instead.

“I’m back,” he says lowly, under his breath, as he slides the scotch across the table and raises his own glass in a faint salute.

“I’m glad,” Jóhann tells him with an adoring smile before knocking half of the scotch back.

Glanni manages not to gag at the affection lacing the young man’s voice and dutifully trails his foot against Jóhann’s leg again, not going up past his knee this time, just tracking up and down his calf in an imitation of fondness. Jóhann seems to melt into the gesture, so trusting, so unaware that he’s just a fly caught in a hungry spider’s web, just a tool that Glanni will willingly use and discard as he pleases.

If Glanni were at all capable of feeling guilt he might have experienced it now, but really, it’s the man’s own fault for being so trusting of strangers. It’s no matter anyways, Glanni will give him something to remember this night by in return for the house tour he’ll ask for in dulcet tones, making note of the most valuable pieces before the pair of them inevitably end up in a bedroom. 

But first, he has to set this little house visit up.

“I’m renting a room above the bar while I’m in town,” he begins softly, eyes half shut so that he appears perfectly relaxed, and just a little tipsy, “maybe, when we’re done here, you could come up for a visit?” He bites at his lower lip thoughtfully, gazing at the other man from under his eyelashes. “I wouldn’t mind spending more time with you in a private setting.” He sets his glass down and leans his elbows against the table, cradling his face in his hands as his foot once again makes it’s way up the other man’s thigh. “Do you think you’d like some private time with me?” The sole of his boot once again presses against the apex of Jóhann’s thighs teasingly.

Jóhann nods in silence, eyes wide. 

“I’m glad,” he parrots Jóhann’s own words back at him as he tucks his feet back under his chair, before letting a small amount of worry overcome his face. He’s about to casually bring up how the bed in his room is quite small, how he himself is almost too tall to fit in it, but Jóhann beats him to the punch.

“How about you come over to my house instead! I could give you the grand tour.”

Glanni flashes a smile. 

Too. Fucking. Easy. 

“You’re so sweet,” he tells him, the man looks absolutely enthralled and half-way drunk. “Is your house far from here? Neither of us are fit to drive.” He takes his drink back in hand and winks before draining the glass completely.

“I have a driver. I can call him to come get us right now.” He fumbles through his pockets, no doubt trying to locate his cell phone, and Glanni leans back in his chair feeling accomplished.

His self-satisfaction is briefly interrupted by some sort of commotion happening at the entrance of the bar, and just as Jóhann takes out his phone with a too-proud, too-wide smile he freezes at the sight of something over Glanni’s shoulder.

Then Glanni hears a voice that makes his blood run cold in fear while, in some distant corner of his mind not occupied with survival, rage bubbles up inside of him.

“I thought you once told me you’d never drink again. Clearly your priorities have shifted somewhat, Jóhann.” The voice sounds equal parts judging and teasing, and Glanni digs his nails into the palm of his hand to resist screaming or running.

Or even standing up and throwing a punch in pre-emptive self defense while he’s got the element of surprise on his side.

“Íþróttaálfurinn!” Jóhann stumbles to his feet, clearly overjoyed despite the somewhat disapproving greeting. Íþróttaálfurinn walks forward, finally trailing into Glanni’s line of sight. 

Would Glanni never be able to rid himself of this ridiculous elf’s presence?

“I did not know that you were coming back to town, if I had known I would have been more careful, I know how much you worry when it comes to alcohol! But it is good to see you again after so long! Here, let me introduce you to my new friend. This is Matthías, he’s just passing through town.”

Íþróttaálfurinn turns and smirks, looking not at all surprised to see Glanni there as he holds out a hand to shake. Glanni feels like he’s frozen solid. He can barely breathe.

“It is good to meet you, Matthías. How are you finding it here so far?” A fake, pleasant smile is on his face. Anger blooms in Glanni’s chest, he wants to scratch that smile off. Wants to burry his nails into Íþróttaálfurinn’s damnably flawless complexion and drag them down, leaving welts in their wake. He harnesses the feeling, tries to focus on it more than the crippling fear.

Glanni doesn’t bother standing, just grips onto the offered hand and squeezes, wishing he could feel bones snap under his grip. Íþróttaálfurinn clutches back just as tightly and he’s barely able to hide a wince. “I only just got in today so I haven’t seen any of the sights, but I find the people to be very charming.”

His voice doesn’t catch, his tone is even. Here is his greatest deception yet: pretending to not be afraid.

“Íþróttaálfurinn here is the root cause of that,” Jóhann says proudly, hand resting on Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder as if they were old friends. “Years ago he came to town and showed us the good we could do if we cleaned up our act a little. Liar Town has been much better ever since. Why, even this bar used to be home to many crooks and crooked fellows, but no longer!” He trips over himself as he says this and Íþróttaálfurinn uses both hands to steady him.

“You have clearly had too much to drink my young friend, I think it is perhaps time you went home.”

“Yes, yes of course. I’ll call my driver right away. Will you still be in town tomorrow Íþróttaálfurinn?”

Íþróttaálfurinn glances meaningfully in Glanni’s direction, but Jóhann doesn’t seem to notice. “That depends on if there’s any trouble for me to stop.”

Jóhann laughs. “You never change, do you?” He casts a brief look over at Glanni, and it’s as if the brief reunion with his hero had been enough to destroy all of the tension that Glanni’s been carefully building up between them. “Matthías, maybe tomorrow we could—I’ll come and take you out for dinner. At six? And after that we can carry on from where we left off.”

“Of course,” Glanni nods in understanding, seething on the inside. “I look forward to it.”

He smiles brightly and stumbles away. Íþróttaálfurinn casually slips into the seat he’d vacated, folding his hands together and giving Glanni a once-over before his gaze rests on the unfinished drink Jóhann had left. He picks up the glass and looks at it, as if he suspects it’s been laced with something.

“I find it a bit strange, I must admit, that anyone would willingly spend time with a corrupt individual such as yourself. What are you all dolled up for? Trying to hide what a terrible person you are on the inside?”

Don’t panic. It’ll only be worse if he panics. 

“Oh please. When you have features like these,” Glanni gestures to his face, fluttering his eyelashes, careful not to look too angry or fearful now that his plot has been foiled. He may have another chance at this, might be able to salvage the situation, but not if the other patrons of the bar see him get into a brawl with a beloved community figure, or if either of them raises their voice loud enough to be heard above everyone else’s conversations. He can’t afford gossip right now. “It would be a crime not to accentuate them once in a while.”

“And you do know a lot about crime, don’t you Matthías? In fact, I wonder what you’ve been dabbling in since you left Lazy Town.” He sticks one finger in the drink and brings it under his nose, sniffing lightly, as if he thinks he’s some kind of bloodhound. “Drugs, maybe?”

Glanni scowls and snatches the drink from his hand, downing the rest of it in one gulp, ignoring the way it burns the back of his throat. The nerve. As if he, Glanni Glæpur, would ever have to resort to drugs in order to make someone lose their inhibitions around him. His mere presence was enough for that, thank you very much. 

Íþróttaálfurinn cocks an eyebrow at him. “Not drugs, maybe. But I have many questions about why you’d be getting cozy with someone in a bar.”

“I don’t know if an upstanding beacon of virtue like you has ever had casual sex, but believe me, the promise of a good fuck is usually a good enough reason to ‘get cozy’ with someone.”

The elf actually looks shocked for a moment, and Glanni relishes the expression.

“You’re here for sex?”

“Obviously.” Glanni wants to kick him under the table, but instead tracks his foot up Íþróttaálfurinn’s leg, just as he had with Jóhann. “I have needs, after all. And I was just about to get everything I wanted from Jóhann until you dismissed him home like a child in need of direction.” He pouts and moves his foot further, wanting to crush Íþróttaálfurinn under his heel, to give him a little pain as punishment for ruining everything, but he’ll settle for making the elf uncomfortable. 

Íþróttaálfurinn grabs onto his ankle before he can go in for the kill.

“You’re acting as if you have power, here, in this situation.” He keeps a firm hold on Glanni’s ankle, his fingers digging slightly into the leather. “Let me remind you that you do not. You are a criminal and the only reason I haven’t alerted anyone to your true identity yet is because of a whim. Curiosity. Do not be so bold as to assume that just because I played along with you acting as a stranger during our meeting means that I feel a great amount of goodwill towards you. Now tell me truthfully. Why are you here?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn twists Glanni’s ankle, just enough to cause a little discomfort without any actual damage. “I do not particularly enjoy using brute force on anyone, even criminals, but my patience is not infinite and I do not appreciate your evasiveness. Answer my question, or I may start considering smearing that red lipstick of yours with a punch to the mouth.”

The threat of physical violence makes his shoulders hunch even as words tumble unthinkingly out of his mouth. “Please, this lipstick is blowjob proof, it’s not going to smear at all.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands go slack and Glanni quickly jerks his ankle out of his grip and tucks his foot back under his chair. All he has to do is roll with his story. He doesn’t have to come clean about his true purpose. 

It won’t even be a full lie, either, he had been fully prepared to do whatever was necessary, had even slipped a few things on under his outerwear so as to be more enticing. He has more proof that sex was his end goal in coming out tonight than most people who pick up strangers from bars.

Íþróttaálfurinn is an ass, and although Glanni hates to admit it he is also very intimidating, but if Glanni just thought of him as someone else, pretended that he wasn’t scared, let that charisma and allure that he’d established for this job bleed into these next few interactions…

Pretending to be something he’s not is a game he’s played for so long that there’s a familiarity in trickery that can lull him into a sense of ease. If Íþróttaálfurinn had been actively chasing him then he’d be too keyed up to pull this off but the situation, for the moment, is under control. 

He perches on the edge of his chair and leans in, just low enough so that he has to look up at Íþróttaálfurinn through his sooty eyelashes as he runs the pad of his thumb roughly over his lower lip, turning the digit to show off the lack of pigment transfer. 

“See? No smearing.”


	2. Get Along Like a House on Fire

Íþróttaálfurinn’s stare intermittently switches between Glanni’s thumb and his lips, which are now curling into a smile that he actively has to work on not making seem too sinisterly amused. The blatant surprise eases him further, makes him feel as though he does have at least some control no matter what Íþróttaálfurinn believes. The elf regretfully seems to get over his shock after taking a few moments to process what Glanni had said and shown him, and he lays his hands palm down on the table as he leans in as well.

“You seek to make me uncomfortable by bringing up sexual intimacy.”

“Or maybe I’m flirting with you, and you’re just too dense to realize it,” Glanni says, using all of his willpower to keep his voice even. Having the table between them had felt like some measure of safety, but now that they’re both bending into the space Íþróttaálfurinn is far too close for comfort. At this range he can make out the smattering of light freckles that paint Íþróttaálfurinn’s cheeks. Glanni’s eyes flit away without him meaning to, and he inwardly curses before forcing himself to look Íþróttaálfurinn in the eye. “Maybe I’m just sizing you up to see if you’d be a decent replacement for the beau that you sent off.”

Íþróttaálfurinn smirks at him in wry amusement. “You really expect me to believe that, of all the people you could have satisfied your lust with in this place, it would just happen to be the son of a now wealthy family? I’m not an idiot.”

“If I were looking for someone wealthy to spend my time with, why would I be doing so in a place like this?” He makes a vague gesture to the small cracks in the windows, the other patrons, and the mismatched chairs that they’re sitting in. 

“So all you wanted was to find some young man to fuck you.”

“Man, woman, both, neither, it’s all the same to me.” Glanni shrugs carelessly. “And your wording could use a bit of work. Are you assuming that my makeup means that I’m automatically the one being fucked? Rude.” Glanni clucks his tongue at him and Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips press firmly together at the chastising sound. “Besides, you can’t always be sure what people like. Maybe he would have just wanted me to step on him, which is something I am more than willing to do.” He has to keep himself from pulling a face as he playfully kicks Íþróttaálfurinn under the table. “I enjoy a little rough play, especially when I take the assertive role.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s face goes carefully vacant. Too bad, Glanni was hoping he might have squirmed a bit at that remark. 

“Enough about me. What exactly are you doing here? You stick out like a sore thumb and you obviously don’t drink.” Glanni folds his hands over each other and finally leans back into his chair, cocking his head back just so that he can look down even more while keeping their eyes locked. “You didn’t seem surprised to see me here. Are you stalking me?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flattering myself goes against everything I stand for.”

Íþróttaálfurinn glares. “I’m sure it does, since you seem excessively vain. But despite what you might wish to believe I am merely here doing some routine check-ups. I may have learned, recently, from a situation that you were directly involved in, that it is not good to leave the towns I consider under my protection alone for long periods of time. It’s best to check in every once in a while.”

“So through my actions you have bettered yourself, and yet I have received no thanks and am sitting here with you instead of with more amiable company. Ungrateful.”

“If you wish for company then perhaps I could tell the local police force just who you actually are.”

If he’d mentioned something about the police as soon as he sat down Glanni would have cut his losses and tried to run, self-preservation instincts and fear clouding his judgment and giving him tunnel vision. But Íþróttaálfurinn has been sitting here with him, making no obvious moves to capture Glanni and throw him into a cell.

Glanni’s heart is still beating like a drum in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins to give him an extra boost should a getaway be necessary, but he’s just calm enough that he can suss out what this situation means. 

“But you haven’t yet, which probably means that you want something from me despite the way you mention curiosity as being the reason I’m not currently handcuffed, and despite this quote unquote routine checkup.” Glanni does hold himself in the highest esteem, but there’s no way Íþróttaálfurinn hasn’t blown the whistle on him yet just because he’s enjoying the pleasure of Glanni’s company. 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands curl into fists. Bingo.

“I need information.”

Oh, now this is interesting. Glanni tries to keep his smile from becoming too predatory, but he doesn’t think he succeeds at all. “Really? And you assume that I have this information?”

“I have a reliable source. You have worked together with the Mayhem Town Gang on multiple occasions, yes?”

“I suppose I might have, back in the day.” Glanni taps his nails rhythmically against the tabletop. “Though I can’t imagine why they’d be of any concern to you.”

“This may be difficult for you to comprehend but there are criminals out there who are a lot worse than you. Besides it’s not the individual gang members I’m after, it’s the person who heads the gang.”

Glanni scoffs. Íþróttaálfurinn scowls.

“Do you have something you want to share?”

“Oh, not particularly, not unless you plan on making it worth my while.”

“You’re not rotting in a jail cell right now, how about you do something to keep it that way. You can’t outrun me, Glæper. I can run you down and drag you to the authorities at any time and there would be nothing you could do to stop it.”

Glanni’s heart seizes and he briefly lets a snarl flicker over his face in an effort to conceal his immediate unease. He’s right, of course, Glanni is already one step behind and he would need to be at least three steps ahead in order to get away scot-free. 

“Fine,” he concedes with a growl and he raises himself to his feet, letting the feeling of towering so far over Íþróttaálfurinn’s head soothe him. “But let’s not talk about this here.”

“We can go to my air balloon.”

“I think not. You couldn’t pay me enough to set foot in that shoddy contraption. We’re going up to my room.”

“That’s a pretty obvious trick, don’t you think?”

Glanni rolls his eyes and steps over to Íþróttaálfurinn’s side of the table, perching himself on the edge and crossing his legs at the ankles, his calf brushing against the outside of Íþróttaálfurinn’s thigh. “Do you think I expected you to be here? Do you think that I would bother setting up traps in a tiny bedroom above a bar where you’re likely to trip over yourself on the uneven flooring? I don’t live my life expecting you to be breathing down my neck every second of every day, don’t flatter yourself. Now come on.” He reaches out with a hand to lightly smack Íþróttaálfurinn’s cheek in what could probably be considered an affectionate gesture to an outside viewer. Íþróttaálfurinn grabs his wrist just before he can make contact. 

“Give me one good reason why I should listen to you.”

“Only one? You’re making this too easy on me.” He strains his fingers so that he can just barely skim his nails over Íþróttaálfurinn’s cheekbone. “You draw attention to yourself. Do you really think that if we leave here and make for wherever you landed your balloon that you won’t attract a crowd of onlookers? We ought to stay inside, it’s more discreet, and everyone around us will be likely to continue giving us privacy because we’ve obviously been flirting since you arrived here.”

Íþróttaálfurinn drops his hand, Glanni glides it onto his shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Now I’m going to walk away, and you’re going to follow me.” He presses his lips to Íþróttaálfurinn’s cheek, half for show and half to see if it would make the elf freeze up. When he pulls away he’s slightly disappointed to see that Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t look particularly phased.

No matter. He slides off the tabletop and turns to walk towards the stairs at the back of the bar, fishing into his pocket for the key to his room.

He’ll do this one thing, and then Íþróttaálfurinn will be out of his hair chasing down ‘worse criminals’, thus leaving him to continue with his original plan tomorrow night.

He can hear the stairs creak as the elf follows behind him, and in no time at all they’re both tucked inside the small room that Glanni is renting.

Glanni lounges across the bed, and Íþróttaálfurinn folds his arms and leans back against the door, frowning.

“Well? Start talking.”

“First of all,” Glanni drawls in a markedly condescending manner, “you assuming that there’s only one person at the top of the food chain in the Mayhem Town Gang shows how ignorant you are about it. It’s a family-run business. Last I heard the original couple who started it were handing the reins over to the kids equally while they moved to a small personal island.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“They had their lovely retirement party last year. Don’t be too sad that you weren’t invited, it’s just that no one likes you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t even bother casting him a glare at the jibe, instead choosing to step away from the door and start pacing around the scant floor-space.

“Can’t you be still and think like a normal person?”

“No.”

Glanni huffs and sits up, then twists to crack his back, not noticing when Íþróttaálfurinn nearly trips at the sounds and sends him a disgusted look.

“What are you so interested in the Mayhem Gang legacies anyways? None of them seem like much of a threat from what little I know.”

“Maybe not individually, but more and more members seem to be cropping up lately, sometimes in different towns. Their numbers are increasing, and most of the newer recruits are younger. They’re becoming more reckless, more dangerous, but no matter how many of them I run down and get behind bars it always seems like they’re quickly replaced, and the police aren’t making very much headway either.”

“Of course they’re not. Do you think this sort of thing is easy?” Glanni’s tone turns mocking and Íþróttaálfurinn pauses just to glare at him. “There’s a hierarchy in place. You and the police are catching all the lower-level grunts who don’t even know who the people second or third from the top are.”

“But you know who the people at the top are.”

Glanni crosses his legs and digs his fingers into the thick duvet underneath him.

“I distantly knew who their parents were. I’ve never met them, and I doubt that they currently go by any name that I could trace them through. I can tell you who some of the people closer to the top are, but for a price.” Such as Íþróttaálfurinn leaving him alone and letting Glanni go about his business undisturbed. 

In a flash Íþróttaálfurinn is before him, one hand lying heavily at the base of his throat. Not enough to actually hurt or cut off his air supply, but enough to imply the threat of it. His fingers twitch, and he takes a deep breath before moving his hand to grip tightly at Glanni’s shoulder.

“How does a human being become as despicable as you? That you would have knowledge that could help make the world a better place but use it to barter for your own gain, it’s deplorable.”

“Well,” Glanni drawls, talking slow to offset the rapid pace of his heart. He can’t let a little threat of violence shut him up now; he’s been doing so well not cowering. Plus this posturing makes it seem like Íþróttaálfurinn isn’t entirely in control of himself right now either, and it’s interesting to see the elf fight to keep from doing something rash. He hadn’t kept the hand at Glanni’s throat; he apparently had boundaries that he was unwilling to cross. Interesting. “I do need money to live.”

Íþróttaálfurinn snarls, removes his hand from Glanni’s shoulder and paces away so that he can stare tensely at the wall.

“You know what they say; there ain’t no rest for the wicked, money don’t grow on trees,” Glanni croons, Íþróttaálfurinn seems to tense further at the sound of it. How impolite, Glanni knows for a fact that he has a marvelous voice. 

“Shut up.” Íþróttaálfurinn whirls back around. Glanni savors the expression on his face.

He’s really gotten under his skin, and something about that is exciting. Glanni slowly uncrosses and re-crosses his legs, pressing his thighs more tightly together.

“You will give me the names of the people you do know, and you will give me whatever else you can remember; last known addresses, phone numbers, physical descriptions, any known false identities. For this, I will not tell the authorities of your whereabouts until I leave tomorrow morning.”

Glanni growls lowly in his throat. All his carefully laid plans end up destroyed because of this walking disaster in front of him. Oh, how Glanni would love to grind him beneath his heel. Get Íþróttaálfurinn underneath him and show him how deplorable he could really be.

Oh, there’s a new thought. Glanni rolls it back and forth in his mind, mildly disturbed at himself but not entirely surprised. He has a type, and Íþróttaálfurinn regretfully fits into it.

“You realize that if it got out that I was the one to give up that information that I could very well end up dead, right? Giving me one night of rest doesn’t seem worth it.”

“So if you had some sort of protection you would agree? Like witness protection?”

Glanni laughs dryly. “I don’t trust police officers to protect anyone.” Plus what better way to keep him safe than lock him up? No thank you.

“I’ll do it then, if it will finally convince you to tell me what you know.”

“You? You had your hand on my throat just a minute ago.”

Íþróttaálfurinn curls his fingers into fists and takes another deep breath. The anger on his face melts into nothingness, and somehow his blank expression is much more unnerving than his rage.

“If you do not tell me I am dragging you to the local police right now. This is your final warning.”

Glanni is smart enough not to push any more. His self-preservation instincts are how he’s survived this long, after all. 

He rattles off what he knows to Íþróttaálfurinn, who jots down notes in a small black book, occasionally asking for further details. The whole exchange takes less than ten minutes.

When Íþróttaálfurinn flips his book shut Glanni can almost swear he feels his own paranoia increase several notches. He’s going to have to be looking over his shoulder at every opportunity now. Keep five steps ahead of everyone else. 

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Íþróttaálfurinn says lightly, almost as if Glanni had gone along with it completely out of his own free will.

Glanni scowls. “I really despise you, do you know that?”

“Trust me, Glæpur, the feeling is mutual.”

“Good,” he says, and then, just because he’d really like to make Íþróttaálfurinn uncomfortable at the mention of intimacy at least one more time, he adds, “you know, we could have such great hate sex.”

Íþróttaálfurinn actually drops the pen that he had been writing with.

Oh yes, this makes up for this terrible night, at least a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a wild guess at what's going to happen next chapter. :)


	3. I Can Resist Anything but Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I need to study for my licensing exam.  
> Also me: But what if I wrote 13 pages of fanfic instead?
> 
> Added some new tags so that ya'll have an idea of what we're getting into here. (Oh-hoho, yes)  
> Since 'rough sex' is a pretty umbrella term but I don't want to tag individual things just in case people are specifically looking for those tags only to find a single instance of it occurring I'm going to do some separate tags in the notes section for any/all chapters that contain good old smut, unless it's reeeeally prevalent. (I get the feeling, just from what I've been thinking about so far, that I'm eventually going to have to tag Glanni's boots for a very particular reason.)
> 
> In this chapter we have a few instances of: kicking, biting, scratching, spanking, dirty talk, and I think that's it. So there you have it.

Glanni casually looks down at his nails as Íþróttaálfurinn works to collect himself, biting back a smirk.

“It would certainly be, dare I say, a rather violent coupling. I’m sure we’d both have marks that lasted for days, though you’d be the worst off in that respect. I’ve just recently filed my nails into such fine points and I do so love to scratch.”

He hears footsteps quickly approaching and he glances up with a smirk, not entirely sure what he expects but certain that he’ll enjoy whatever fascinating way Íþróttaálfurinn will choose to express his discomfort.

He doesn’t expect a hand to fist tightly into the material of his sweater. It only takes a half a second for his pulse to skyrocket in anger and fear.

“This is cashmere, you oaf,” he snarls, every muscle in his body going tense as he braces for whatever is coming his way.

He is not expecting a pair of lips to come crashing, rather inelegantly, against his own.

Glanni is, for lack of a better word, shocked. He remains still for several moments before being fully able to process that Íþróttaálfurinn is kissing him, is licking into Glanni’s slack mouth as if he wants to devour him. And then he thinks, well, two can play at this game.

He’s the one who started this; he’s not going to back down now. Íþróttaálfurinn’s probably not even expecting him to kiss back, probably just figured that he’d try and make Glanni uncomfortable.

The joke is on him. Glanni is very adaptable in this sort of situation.

He opens his mouth against Íþróttaálfurinn’s and wraps his arms around his broad shoulders, yanking him down to deepen the kiss further and taking a small amount of pleasure in knowing how awkwardly Íþróttaálfurinn has to bend over in order to keep the contact up. He drags one hand up Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck, skimming his nails along the base of his skull, and purposefully yanks that wretched hat off of his head.

Íþróttaálfurinn chooses to retaliate by hauling Glanni to his feet, using the grip on his sweater as leverage.

Glanni breaks the kiss and hisses, “what is wrong with you?”

“Not as much as is wrong with you.” His hands trail down Glanni’s arms before catching Glanni’s wrists in a vice-like grip. Glanni moves to stomp on his boot, but he must broadcast the move too obviously because Íþróttaálfurinn is able to move his foot out of the way before it is crushed. “That was not a smart move.” He twists Glanni around and pins his wrists high up on his back. Glanni arches in an attempt to lessen the discomfort.

“A rough coupling, you say, is that what you want Glæpur? Is that why you’ve been baiting me ever since you shook my hand? You decided to act all coy and smug, raising my temper, because you just can’t pass up the opportunity for a hard fuck?”

Glanni would be impressed at the language if he weren’t absolutely livid. He kicks back blindly, a sense of satisfaction curling in his gut when he hits something and hears a muffled curse behind him.

“I told you I had needs, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Íþróttaálfurinn transfers both of Glanni’s wrists into one hand. His other hand clamps down on Glanni’s hip. “You also told me your lipstick was blowjob proof. How do you feel about proving it?”

“Not sure you would enjoy that. I’ve been known to bite.”

Íþróttaálfurinn spins him back around. Glanni bares and snaps his teeth. 

“Charming. Are you like this with all of your bed partners?”

“Are you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t answer, just pulls down on Glanni’s sweater with a smirk and seals their lips together again. Now Glanni’s the one hunched over awkwardly, his height in the heels working against him. His shirt is probably ruined now. He’ll never be able to wear it again; the wool’s going to be too stretched out from all the abuse it’s been subjected to.

Irritation flows through him, even as he masterfully drags his tongue against the seam of Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips and slides a leg between Íþróttaálfurinn’s own. He distantly wonders if he’s taking this too far, but discards the thought almost as quickly as it had come.

He hadn’t really meant for hate sex to be a part of his night, but he’s not going to turn it down, not when it’ll give him an opportunity to lord this over Íþróttaálfurinn every chance he can get.

Oh, Íþróttaálfurinn, remember that time you succumbed to your base urges and fucked a criminal? What kind of hero does that?

His kisses become deceptively sweet, gentle, and Íþróttaálfurinn’s grip on him lightens. He breathes an imitation of a moan against the elf’s mouth, cards a hand through his dirty blond hair, and then he bites down on his lower lip hard.

Íþróttaálfurinn pushes him away and, perhaps out of instinct, slaps Glanni across the face. 

A coppery flavor coats his tongue, but it’s not just blood from his own mouth that he’s tasting. He’d bitten Íþróttaálfurinn hard enough to split his lip.

Íþróttaálfurinn stares at him with wide eyes, oddly still. Reflexive movement, then. Pushing away the cause of the pain. 

“I told you,” Glanni says, grinning wide. “I’ve been known to bite.”

That seems to snap Íþróttaálfurinn out of his stillness. “I should gag you,” he growls, forcefully pushing Glanni back so that he falls to the bed. “Stuff something in your mouth. Maybe tie my belt around your head as a make-shift bit. That way I can still hear you whimper and moan as you drool into the bed.”

“Whimper? Me?” Glanni kicks out again. Íþróttaálfurinn grabs onto one ankle, then the other, and splays Glanni’s legs wide open. 

“Yes, you. You’re so needy for it, after all. I can see you getting hard in those ridiculously tight pants of yours. You’re so eager for me to give you what you need. I should make you beg for it.”

He could try, but Glanni’s never had to genuinely beg for sex in his life and he’s certainly not going to start now. Not even when this is turning out to be such a promising situation.

He has the best ideas. He’s a genius. He should be rewarded.

“I think you have that the other way around.” Glanni traces a hand down his own chest and palms lightly at his dick, sighing theatrically at the touch, and pointedly glances at the tenting fabric of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hideous pants. “Looks like you’re enjoying yourself. You should be thanking me for giving you this opportunity.”

Íþróttaálfurinn kneels between Glanni’s legs. “Do you ever shut up?”

“No. I love the sound of my voice too much.”

“Ego-maniac,” Íþróttaálfurinn mutters, letting go of Glanni’s ankles so that he can skim his hands underneath Glanni’s sweater. He stills abruptly when his fingers don’t come in contact with bare skin.

This is Glanni’s time to shine. Íþróttaálfurinn may have him physically outmatched, but when Glanni plotted out his evening in his head he’d been very thorough and has more than enough surprises hidden away to keep him on his toes. Poor elf has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

He yanks Íþróttaálfurinn down, pleased to find the action easier than expected, and forces him onto his back before seating himself astride on Íþróttaálfurinn’s trim waist. He pulls his sweater off with a practiced casual air and tosses it aside.

The translucent material of his chemise doesn’t do a whole lot to hide his skin, but he’s always found sheer fabrics to be the most sexy. Showing off but still covering up. Playful but provocative. 

And maroon really does wonderful things for his complexion. 

He untucks the hem of it out of his pants, lets it graze lightly against his upper thighs, and smirks.

Íþróttaálfurinn stares up at him and Glanni rocks his hips experimentally, finding himself enjoying his new perch. He faux-absentmindedly reaches up to roll one of his nipples between a thumb and forefinger while his other hand braces itself on the chest laid out in front of him. His nipples aren’t particularly sensitive, but he’s often found that faking it tends to make his male partners excited, easier to exploit. 

There is something arousing, though, in the idea of Íþróttaálfurinn latching his mouth onto him and trying to bring him pleasure that way. Almost as arousing as the idea of Íþróttaálfurinn sucking his cock. 

Íþróttaálfurinn reaches up with one hand. He doesn’t grab the chemise with the same thoughtless force as his ruined sweater, instead he secures his palm against the back of Glanni’s neck and drags him down into a rough kiss.

It stings. Glanni opens his mouth and chases the metallic taste of blood with his tongue, grinding against Íþróttaálfurinn’s abdomen harder. He wants to dig his nails in Íþróttaálfurinn’s back, wants to bite along his collar bone and suck blood to the surface of his skin all up the column of his neck. Wants to leave so many marks that Íþróttaálfurinn will never be able to forget tonight. Wants Íþróttaálfurinn’s face to burn with the memory of it years down the line.

Glanni is going to take and take and take what he wants, and Íþróttaálfurinn’s going to give it to him, but not without a fight. Coincidentally, that’s exactly how he wants it.

Their kisses turn a bit frantic as Glanni scrambles to undo Íþróttaálfurinn’s ridiculous chest-plate without success. He growls lowly in his throat when the leather refuses to budge, and Íþróttaálfurinn laughs harshly into his mouth.

“Having difficulty?”

“Take this damned thing off and maybe I’ll be so generous as to show you what I’m wearing under my pants.”

“Did you slip a pair of pretty panties on?” Íþróttaálfurinn sits up and Glanni slides down from the perch on his waist and into his lap. “Something nice to match your top?”

“Obviously.” Glanni rolls his eyes and grinds his ass against Íþróttaálfurinn’s cock. Then, just to be insolent, he adds, “I bet Jóhann would have loved it.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s expression turns dark. He curls his hand into Glanni’s short hair, anchoring as best as he can, and pulls. Glanni smirks at him.

“Trying to make me jealous, Glæpur? You really do want it rough. You’re just trying to push me past my breaking point, aren’t you?”

Exactly.

“I’m just stating a fact.”

“Really?” He tugs hard on Glanni’s hair, pulling back his head. “I am more inclined to believe that everything you do has a purpose.” He leans in to drag his tongue up Glanni’s bared neck, then re-traces the path with sharp pricks of teeth.

He was smarter than Glanni gave him credit for, which made him all the more dangerous. Which really made this so much more thrilling.

Glanni rocks his hips in small figure eight patterns, bracing his hands on Íþróttaálfurinn’s thighs. The soft moan that escapes his mouth isn’t faked this time, though he is quick to combine it with a breathy sigh that is, trying to take comfort in the familiarity of deception.

Íþróttaálfurinn smirks, and this time when he leans in for a kiss it’s him who is biting. Not as hard a Glanni would, but enough that Glanni tries to recoil from the slight flare of pain before he retaliates, biting back and digging his nails firmly into the bare skin of Íþróttaálfurinn’s upper arms.

Then the world flips on its axis. Glanni struggles to reorient himself as he finds himself on his back again while Íþróttaálfurinn unzips and tugs off Glanni’s boots, raising an amused eyebrow when he spies the items Glanni had concealed inside of them. He doesn’t comment on it, just moves his hands to the waist of Glanni’s pants. Glanni smacks his hands away.

“Take your shirt off first you idiot.”

“You’re so bossy,” Íþróttaálfurinn tells him, but he leans back briefly to remove his leather chest plate and shirt before yanking Glanni’s pants halfway down his thighs. 

He stares. Glanni preens. 

The matching panties he’d slipped on for tonight are gorgeous and he, of course, looks gorgeous in them. He parts his legs as much as he can with his pants still halfway on and trails a hand down to where he’s started to make a wet mess against the fabric. Íþróttaálfurinn grabs his wrist before he’s done any more than skimmed his fingertips over the head of his dick.

Glanni opens his mouth to throw a few choice insults his way, but his breath catches when the palm of Íþróttaálfurinn’s other hand starts grinding down against him. He bucks his hips up into the pressure, arches his back, and uses his own free hand to continue toying with his nipples through the fabric of his chemise. 

“Look at you, wet and desperate for it.” Íþróttaálfurinn’s tone isn’t quite as mocking as Glanni expected it to be. An interesting surprise. “I almost just want to watch you make a complete mess of this pretty little thing you’re wearing. I bet I could make you fall apart so quickly with just my hand, but I’ve got other plans for you.” He smirks as he tugs Glanni’s pants the rest of the way down and adds, as if in afterthought, “maybe some other time.”

His tone is irritatingly confident, and Glanni kicks him in the gut for it. The blow isn’t as harsh as it would have been if Glanni were wearing his boots, but it is still satisfying to watch the elf forcefully exhale and bend over at the hit.

“You say ‘some other time’ as if you’ve given me a reason to let you see me again.”

“Well, I’m about to.”

He grabs Glanni’s hips, tight enough that Glanni feels as though his fingerprints will be imprinted upon his skin, and leans in to drag his tongue over the thin, wet fabric.

Oh.

Glanni’s hands clench and unclench in the bedding underneath him as Íþróttaálfurinn purposefully exhales over the head of his cock. His hands tighten to a near-bruising force on Glanni’s hips and when Glanni locks gazes with him again Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes are smoldering, his pupils blown. He drags his tongue against the shaft again and Glanni squirms, genuine pleasure flooding through him and leaving him feeling complaisant. Íþróttaálfurinn lays several gentle, open-mouthed kisses upon him, not breaking eye contact even as his thumbs curl under the waistband and pulls it down slightly.

Glanni’s hands move to curl into Íþróttaálfurinn’s hair.

“I believe you mentioned something about ‘giving me a reason’?” Glanni prompts, arching his brow, arousal flaring in his gut when Íþróttaálfurinn smirks up at him before deliberately laving his tongue against the bare head. Glanni’s hands clench into fists when Íþróttaálfurinn’s mouth falls open and takes him in.

Glanni tries to etch the sight of this into his memory, and his fingers twitch in Íþróttaálfurinn’s hair when he pulls away to scrape his teeth against Glanni’s hipbone. 

“You look so good like this,” Íþróttaálfurinn tells him, “I can almost forgive the fact that you probably stole everything you’re wearing.”

Glanni’s hands slip out of Íþróttaálfurinn’s curls, curiously dragging along the pointed tips of his ears before falling away completely.

Íþróttaálfurinn’s breath hitches, and Glanni files the reaction away with interest.

“I don’t need your forgiveness.” He tries to buck his hips against Íþróttaálfurinn’s face, but the hands on his hips easily keep him pinned. “All I want from you is a good fuck. Condoms are on the bedside table.”

Íþróttaálfurinn effortlessly flips him over. Glanni shudders at how easily he is manhandled and arcs his back, ass up, as if he’s presenting himself.

“Do you not have anything else?” Íþróttaálfurinn leans over Glanni briefly to grab a foil packet, settling back on his heels and undoing his pants. “Surely you don’t mean for me to use spit as lubrication?” 

“Don’t need anything else,” Glanni says, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “I got myself ready less than two hours ago, and the condoms are lubricated. Now if you’ll just get on with it, you fucking—“ 

Íþróttaálfurinn yanks the panties partway down his thighs and smacks the palm of his hand hard against Glanni’s ass. Glanni almost bites his tongue at the sudden, unexpected sting. 

“That was for kicking me. In case you were wondering.” Íþróttaálfurinn pinches the reddening skin roughly, Glanni grits his teeth to keep any sound from escaping his mouth. His hand lingers afterwards, fingers digging into soft flesh before trailing down the cleft of Glanni’s ass. He shallowly presses in with two fingers, then adds a third, rocking his hand gently while assessing the lack of resistance and the lingering traces of lube. “You deserve more than that as punishment, really, but we’ve waited long enough.” He pulls his hand away, and Glanni strains to hear the sound of the foil packet being opened. 

It’s really happening. 

Glanni shudders and leans his upper body into the pillows below him, his cock is dripping precome and he’s suddenly very glad that Íþróttaálfurinn turned him over so that he can’t see exactly how much Glanni wants this even after the hit, although it also means that Glanni isn’t going to be able to drag his nails down Íþróttaálfurinn’s back until he bleeds, which is a damn shame. 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands grip at his hips again, a shade too tight to be comfortable, and Glanni feels soft exhalations ghosting across his back as Íþróttaálfurinn hovers overtop of him. There’s several seconds of stillness where Glanni worries Íþróttaálfurinn might actually order him to beg, but then he feels the slick brush of latex glide against him, and then the blunt head of Íþróttaálfurinn’s cock starts pushing inside.

Glanni takes deep breaths through his mouth, chest hitching as Íþróttaálfurinn pulls back until the head of his cock is just barely past the rim before thrusting in again, scarcely more than before. It’s almost methodical, the way he eases himself into Glanni’s body. He’d expected him to be a lot more forceful about it. If it weren’t for the soft panting that Glanni can hear and feel against his back he would almost think that Íþróttaálfurinn found the process tedious.

He’s bigger than expected too, and Glanni experiences brief alarm at the knowledge that he hadn’t actually seen Íþróttaálfurinn’s cock completely bare, only as a distinct shape through his pants. He can feel himself stretching, slowly becoming used to the intrusion with each shallow thrust of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips, but he’s not entirely sure how much longer it will take until Íþróttaálfurinn is fully seated inside of him.

He’s not sure if he wants to urge Íþróttaálfurinn to go faster to get it over with or if he’d rather keep the pace as it is, which is somewhat concerning because Glanni prides himself on always knowing what he wants, especially when it comes to sex.

He opens his mouth, hoping to at least establish some sort of banter so that he can feel more like his usual self, but then Íþróttaálfurinn brushes up against something inside of him and he lets out a cry, hips thrusting back instinctively even though he can barely move in Íþróttaálfurinn’s grasp.

Íþróttaálfurinn goes still.

“Look at you, taking me in so beautifully,” he murmurs, his voice becoming stronger and surer as he continues, “so warm and tight. Perfect.” He pulls almost all the way out and Glanni tries to push himself further back to no avail. “Have I been going too slow for you, Glæpur? Not giving you the rough fuck that you want?”

“Will you shut up?” Glanni’s voice is raspier than it ought to be, but that’s not enough to stop him from talking back. “For fuck’s sake.” He raises himself up on his elbows and tosses another look over his shoulder, bristling when he sees Íþróttaálfurinn smirking at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Glanni wants to make a snide reply, but all the air rushes out of his lungs when Íþróttaálfurinn drives his hips forward. He scrambles for purchase in the blankets below him as the stretch almost becomes too much. He thinks a few nonsensical, wordless sounds may fall from his open mouth, but he can’t focus enough to be sure. A white-hot feeling seeps inside of him, makes his mind feel hazy and his limbs feel heavy, and then there’s a lurching in his chest when he feels Íþróttaálfurinn’s pelvis press flush against him.

His mouth falls open with a soft cry that he isn’t entirely sure he meant to make. Íþróttaálfurinn makes a harsh noise low in his throat, half-way between a growl and a laugh, and the next time he pulls partway out he doesn’t go soft or slow, doesn’t give Glanni extra time to adjust.

Glanni bites into the pillow underneath him to keep from embarrassing himself with anymore unplanned noises as Íþróttaálfurinn thrusts firmly into him. One of the elf’s hands leaves his hip to splay itself across Glanni’s lower abdomen, pressing solidly into the softness there.

“I almost believe I can feel myself inside of you, this way,” he presses his palm up harder. Glanni takes one of his own hands and lays it overtop of Íþróttaálfurinn’s, deceptively gentle, and hides his grin against the pillow.

Now that Íþróttaálfurinn isn’t keeping him in place with both hands…

He moves back to meet Íþróttaálfurinn’s thrusts, shocks travelling up his spine at the hard slap of skin against skin. The pads of Íþróttaálfurinn’s fingers dig further into him and Glanni retaliates by clenching around his cock.

Íþróttaálfurinn moans; a ragged, beautiful sound. Music to Glanni’s ears. He leans down to press wet kisses along the curve of Glanni’s back, and pants against the base of his neck. Glanni braces an arm under himself to move with more force, and the hand that had been pressed against Íþróttaálfurinn’s moves up and behind to tightly grip blond hair. Unbeknownst to him his thumb grazes an ear, causing Íþróttaálfurinn to full-body shudder against him.

He plans to make a comment about hair-pulling, but then Íþróttaálfurinn’s hand moves to grip at his cock and he decides to focus on what is most important; orgasms. 

“Fuck me harder,” he demands, tugging harshly at Íþróttaálfurinn’s hair before letting go to brace his hand against the head of the bed. “Faster. I know you can. Don’t hold back.”

“I’d never hold back with you, Glæpur,” Íþróttaálfurinn says, and then he pulls completely out.

“What the fuck—“ Glanni finds himself being manhandled again, turned onto his back with hardly any effort.

“Better this way,” Íþróttaálfurinn tells him, ripping the delicate panties right off of Glanni’s thighs—Glanni mourns for yet another ruined article of clothing, even as the display makes him feel somewhat drunk on the knowledge that Íþróttaálfurinn is too impatient to undress him normally—and then wrapping Glanni’s legs around his waist.

Glanni’s arms come up around his shoulders, nails skirting lightly over his back. Finally. Finally.

“You know. You might actually be right about that, Íþróttaálfurinn.” He grins viciously and digs in just as he feels Íþróttaálfurinn’s cock brush against him again. 

There’s no slow start; one second he is achingly empty and the next he is almost overwhelmed at the feeling of Íþróttaálfurinn inside of him.

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips work against him relentlessly, hard and fast enough that all of Glanni’s usual schemes; playing with his nipples, moaning breathily, asking precisely for what he knows his partner wants, fizzle out of his mind. His body’s movements aren’t carefully calculated. He’s neither bored nor fully immersed in the act of faking pleasure.

He’s just one reaction after another; like strands of dominoes falling in a line or shockwaves after an earthquake. Every hard thrust of Íþróttaálfurinn inside of him has Glanni’s body working on instinct as it chases pleasure. 

Íþróttaálfurinn bites, too. Digging his teeth into Glanni’s skin at his collarbone and neck hard enough that Glanni will have a necklace of bruises tomorrow. Glanni’s blood sings at the discomfort and he drags his nails against Íþróttaálfurinn’s back.

“You weren’t kidding about the scratching,” Íþróttaálfurinn grits out, pulling his teeth away from Glanni’s neck for a moment to take in his own handiwork. “Should have known it would be like this. You just have to leave marks, don’t you?”

Glanni isn’t so far gone as to let that go without saying something in return.

“You should talk. I’m not going to able to wear low-necked shirts for a week.” He means to tack on an insult, but Íþróttaálfurinn brushes against his prostate again and he grits his teeth instead, body rocking forcefully in an attempt to recreate the sensation.

“So needy, so eager for my cock.” Íþróttaálfurinn tilts Glanni’s hips up, seeking a better angle. “Taking everything I give you because it’s what you want, isn’t it? Wanted to be fucked so badly that you would have let a stranger see you like this, have you like this.” His voice drops to a rough timbre, his own short nails digging into pale flesh as he adopts a punishing pace. “But I’m the one with you now. I’m the one fucking you.” He leans back down to bite at Glanni’s collarbones when the other man thrashes beneath him, a litany of “fuck fuck fuck,” dropping from his painted mouth.

Glanni’s whole body lights up, electric impulses overloading his nerves. He feels like a bundle of firecrackers with a lit fuse, seconds away from becoming something hot and bright and beautiful. He drags his nails down Íþróttaálfurinn’s back even as he writhes, toes curling, limbs tensing as white-hot pleasure starts flooding through his senses.

“Fuck me,” he demands, voice catching in his throat, “hold me down. Keep going.”

One of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands rests heavily on his chest and Glanni closes his eyes as his body jolts, hands turning to fists and legs spasming, the build up of pleasure bursting like a dam. A long, continuous moan escapes him, and even as his limbs begin to go slack Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t falter.

If anything he seems to accelerate. 

Glanni squirms, eyes tearing up from the over-stimulation, but Íþróttaálfurinn’s hand continues to pin him in place and Glanni doesn’t have any desire to push him away, only to drag his nails up Íþróttaálfurinn’s back, around his shoulders, down his arms. Suddenly Íþróttaálfurinn leans forward, grinding into Glanni desperately as his teeth leave even more marks on Glanni’s shoulder. Everything about him goes tense, his fluid movements becoming jerky as he rocks into Glanni, as if he can go deeper. He exhales loudly against Glanni’s throat as he slows to a stop, laving his tongue against the fresh marks his mouth had left behind.

Íþróttaálfurinn nuzzles against a particularly sore spot of Glanni’s neck before slowly pulling away. There’s something in his expression that Glanni doesn’t have the energy to read into. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything now, really, not even get up to clean himself up.

Íþróttaálfurinn’s cheeks are flushed from exertion and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his brow that has no right to be as attractive as it is. His hand skims down Glanni’s chest and stomach, veering to his left hip and thigh as he settles into a kneeling position. He takes off the condom, ties it closed, and tosses it with pinpoint accuracy into the wastebasket by the door.

Glanni can’t hold back a dry, unimpressed look.

“That was the most unnecessary thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. You couldn’t just get up and throw it away?”

Íþróttaálfurinn cocks an eyebrow at him. “Are you worried that I might have missed? At a distance like this I could throw a golf ball into a shot glass.”

Glanni refuses to be awed by any mention of Íþróttaálfurinn’s athletic prowess. 

“I almost can’t believe that you know what a shot glass looks like.”

This is the weirdest pillow talk that Glanni has ever had the misfortune of participating in.

Time to put an end to it.

He means to gather up enough strength to push Íþróttaálfurinn out of the bed, because watching him fall to the floor will be a memorable conclusion to what turned out to be some spectacular sex, but before he can do anything both of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands are skimming across his hips, then drifting underneath him.

“Please don’t tell me you’re ready for a round two.” He likes the feeling of being over-stimulated, but there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing. 

Íþróttaálfurinn purses his lips, something like concern tugging at the corners of his mouth, and that’s when Glanni notices that his hands are considerably warmer than they were before. The touch of them is pleasant, soothing, a balm to his aches. He almost finds himself relaxing into it, but his mind can’t help focusing on how strange the sensation is. 

Unnatural.

“What are you doing?” Glanni hoists himself backwards. “Are you—are you trying to use magic on me?”

Íþróttaálfurinn follows after him. “It’s just a bit of healing.”

“No. I refuse. I’m absolutely fine.”

“You were crying.”

“I was not!” Glanni lifts a hand to his face, feels the wetness there, and changes tactics. “That happens sometimes, it’s perfectly natural.” 

Íþróttaálfurinn looks like he wants to protest. Glanni doesn’t give him the chance to.

“Get dressed and get out.” Glanni grabs a small packet of tissues to clean off his stomach and pat at his chemise. He throws a bundle towards the wastebasket and misses. “The key to the room in in my pant pocket. Lock it and slide it under the door after.” He rolls himself up in blankets, unwilling to move from the bed even to slip into his pajamas, and clenches his eyes shut, body tense as he listens to Íþróttaálfurinn fumbling around for his clothing and the key.

Then he hears the door open and close, and he lets himself relax.

That could have gone a lot worse, he muses.


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh guys, have I told you that I love ya'll? Your comments keep me going. :)  
> Shorter chapter this time around before the plot begins to thicken.

Íþróttaálfurinn quietly closes the door behind him and locks it, then takes a moment to adjust his hat, then his bootlaces, then his belt. As if he needs an excuse to linger. As if he has a reason to linger.

This was… An unexpected deviation to his plan for how his night would progress. He’d expected Glæpur to get under his skin, of course. Expected him to push his temper to its limits, and he’d been prepared to use force to get him to comply if necessary. 

He looks down at the key in his hand, wondering what he should do.

Well, if he is to alert the authorities about the location of the wanted criminal Glanni Glæpur before he leaves tomorrow, which is what he ought to do, then would it be rude of him to not let Glæpur have a bit of a head start and wake him before he leaves?

All things considered; would it be rude to alert the authorities while Glæpur was still deep within town limits?

If Glæpur’s information turned out half as useful as Íþróttaálfurinn assumed it would be then maybe putting him behind bars and making him less likely to help again should the need arise was an unwise action. The criminal was maddening enough when he was walking free, digging his heels in to resist being helpful for as long as he possibly could. Íþróttaálfurinn can only imagine that getting him to spill anything if he were locked up would be like pulling teeth from a hippopotamus who could easily crush you in its mouth should the desire to bite down arise. Equal parts frustrating and dangerous. 

Plus there was the little issue of Glanni somehow being out of prison in the first place, either due to his own ingenuity or a failing system, Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t sure he wanted to know which it was.

He sighs. Considers his next course of action.

It’s not often that he finds himself in such a grey area, morally or otherwise.

He almost never bothers making deals, mostly because he doesn’t generally need information that isn’t freely given by townsfolk or police, but the Mayhem Town Gang is genuinely getting out of control and the citizens are unusually tight-lipped and distrustful of him while the police are struggling to do what they can. Nevertheless when he’d happened to hand a member over to the authorities who’d yelled something along the lines of ‘you couldn’t keep Glanni behind bars, you won’t keep me’ he’d suddenly been a lot more interested in the man’s ravings.

It hadn’t taken too much asking around to discover that Glæpur had worked alongside Mayhem Town Gang members several times, even going so far as to request their help during his stint in Lazy Town.

And that struck Íþróttaálfurinn as somewhat odd, not only because Glæpur seemed the sort to prefer working on his own, but also because he apparently had enough sway with the gang to request their assistance and actually receive it. That sort of thing spoke of history, whether anyone would willfully admit it or not.

So he’d tracked Glæpur down, found him here, and had taken an even firmer approach than what he would normally consider using, certain that the man wouldn’t respond well to false niceties and unwilling to indulge the criminal who was clearly up to no good. He’d gotten what information he could, and then…

The scratches on his back ache, and so does his split lip. His muscles feel loose and limber.

His hands are still warm with untapped magic.

Íþróttaálfurinn sighs again and raises them to his mouth, then glides them across his upper back. He can feel a faint pull as his skin stitches itself together, just enough to stop any bleeding.

He is not overly gifted in the magical arts, most of the basics he has mastered revolve around the tending to, growth, and manipulation of plant life, but he can manage some simple healing when necessary. It’s just too bad that he hadn’t meant for himself to be the intended target.

He takes out the notebook he’d written all of Glæpur’s information in, skimming the pads of his fingers along names and descriptions, and slips the key into his pocket as he leaves.

Lair Town’s police station is only several blocks away, and the officer on night shift perks up considerably when she sees Íþróttaálfurinn run through the front doors. She’s only too happy to help Íþróttaálfurinn with faxing copies of his information to his contact within the Mayhem Town police force, and doesn’t make any attempts to peak at the information. Perhaps because she doesn’t want to know what sort of paperwork he’d want to send some poor officer stuck in Mayhem Town. When she’s done she hands the notebook back to him with a smile, wishing him a good night.

And then Íþróttaálfurinn is free to walk back to his air balloon, the key weighing heavily in his pocket.

He’s handed off what he hopes will be incredibly useful information, but the police force is so often bound by red tape, waiting for warrants and witnesses and justifiable evidence. The trouble in working in law enforcement is that you have to work with the law, not against it, no matter how convenient it would be otherwise. He’s lucky enough to be an outside force, not quite as bound to the particulars as an officer of the law. But heroes have their own code to follow, and he can’t just go dragging people into the nearest local precinct when there’s doubt of their involvement.

The crystal on his hat chimes, a soft reminder that the trouble in Mayhem Town doesn’t disappear at nightfall. If anything it just gets worse. It makes him briefly feel exhausted with the world; with the way mankind can be so knowingly cruel to each other.

At times like this he really wishes that the police had, at some point, planted a mole. 

Covert operations are not something he excels at as his personality doesn’t lend itself particularly well to deceit and there’s no way that, with the increased police scrutiny lately, anyone who’s really worth catching in the gang is going to be willing to rub elbows with a bunch of new, suspicious recruits.

Even though a spy might have sped things up a little, there was just no way—

Íþróttaálfurinn abruptly pauses, his own thoughts bringing him to a standstill. 

History, he thinks to himself.

They would need someone with history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Íþróttaálfurinn is about to do something rash.


	5. Reckless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ithro, Ithro no. Ithro. _No._  
>  He's unstoppable.

He thinks at some point, far too early in the morning for anyone sane to be awake unless they have been up the whole night, Íþróttaálfurinn shakes him by the shoulder in an effort to wake him up. Perhaps to remind Glanni that he’s leaving town and is going to be telling the police where he is, or maybe because he wants to fool around before he goes.

Glanni doesn’t care either way; all that matters is that someone had the audacity to wake him. He turns and pointedly snarls, eyes squinting in Íþróttaálfurinn’s general direction.

“I will murder you if you do that again. Fuck off. Goodnight.”

He rolls over and buries his head under a pillow to drown out what sounds suspiciously like a startled laugh that Íþróttaálfurinn makes in response and thankfully drifts into a deeper sleep.

The next time he wakes up it’s natural. Sunlight must be flitting in through the curtains because it’s annoyingly bright. And he must have cramped himself on the bed oddly, because he’s curled up in a half-sitting position and not splayed out like he generally likes to sleep.

Then he feels something—the bed?—rock beneath him and the realizes that something is decidedly not right. He snaps his eyes open.

He is sitting. Curled up under a blanket. In the basket of Íþróttaálfurinn’s air balloon. 

Íþróttaálfurinn himself happens to glance down at him in that very moment, and he smirks infuriatingly. “Good morning, Glæpur.”

Five seconds pass. The situation sinks in.

Glanni screeches and flings himself up and at the elf, hands rushing forward in hopes of getting hold of the bastard’s neck. The basket lurches at his sudden movements and Glanni finds himself leaning at the edge, Íþróttaálfurinn having smartly moved out of the way, staring down at the world so, so far below.

He is not afraid of heights. He is not afraid of heights. He is not afraid of heights.

He takes several deep breaths, trying desperately to keep calm, and he turns around to face Íþróttaálfurinn.

“You’ve kidnapped me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn crosses his arms and frowns at him. “Think of it more like a citizen’s arrest. I know you’re just going to cause trouble the minute I leave, so I may as well make use of you of instead.”

Glanni manages to raise a single eyebrow and drawls, with as much excessive emphasis as the situation calls for, “Make use of me how?”

Íþróttaálfurinn momentarily falters at his suggestive tone, and Glanni would take a lot more pleasure in his discomfort if they weren’t hundreds of feet above solid ground.

“Make use of you as an aid to catch the heads of the Mayhem Town Gang! You must have an in with these people, they know you as a fellow criminal, you can weasel your way in and get me the few pieces of information I need to take them down.”

“Right.” Glanni crosses his arms and glances down at his small suitcase. At least he has his things with him, although Íþróttaálfurinn had dressed him in his outfit from the night before, sans the sweaty and most likely stained chemise, and he’d slept in his makeup, so he probably looks like an utter wreck. 

He looks up, lips pursing together in a frown. He has no idea how to work a hot air balloon, and this doesn’t exactly look like a standard model that he might be able to figure out either. Even if he somehow managed to subdue Íþróttaálfurinn he’s not sure he’d be able to land. Knowing his luck he’d end up sucked into a storm and die in a terrifying and painful crash.

Irritation flows through him again and he takes a small amount of comfort from it, mind spinning with ideas on how to twist this situation into something he can manage. “Out of curiosity, do you even know what a citizen’s arrest actually is? Or do the police of every place you’ve ever come across just give you free reign to do whatever you want because you’re a magical sports elf?”

“Do you know what a citizen’s arrest is?”

“I never cared to learn, but I’m pretty sure that there is a line that has been crossed here. You took me, as I was sleeping, and stuffed me into your mode of transportation,” he growls, barring his teeth like he’s just waiting for an opportunity to dig them into Íþróttaálfurinn’s throat.

“I was going to let you walk to my air balloon, but you threatened to murder me.”

Glanni glares at him, Íþróttaálfurinn smiles.

The utter fucking unbearable bastard.

“You enjoy being a pain in my side, don’t you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn rolls his eyes and huffs, as though he can’t imagine why Glanni is being so resistive to this entire uncalled for situation. It’s like he just doesn’t understand that it’s bad form to have a one night stand and then decide, without any input from said one night stand, that they should combine forces in order to fight crime.

He’s out of his goddamn mind. Glanni should have known that he had a couple of screws loose, no one goes around playing hero because they’re perfectly adjusted members of society.

No one plays villain because they’re perfectly adjusted members of society either, but Glanni has long since come to terms with himself, thank you very much. 

“Help me with this and I’ll give you a few days head start before I set the police on you. Or I could let the police know that you helped!” Íþróttaálfurinn actually sounds excited at the possibility. “You could get a reduced sentence that way.”

“No. You see; that wasn’t the deal we originally came up with. You keep threatening me with the police but you also keep pushing off telling them where I am because you seem to need more and more of my help with each passing hour. I am not coming along with you on your insane journey. What exactly were you thinking, that I’d appear in Mayhem Town out of nowhere and somehow gather up enough information for you to stop an entire gang in a few days?” He stomps his foot pointedly. “Isn’t this what police are for anyway? Stop interfering with human business, go back to whatever terrible place you came from and stay there!”

“I cannot do that, it is my duty to keep an eye on the towns under my watch.”

“Is it actually, though? Or did you just get bored one day and decide to play hero?”

Íþróttaálfurinn glares hotly at him. Glanni ignores the kidnapper and glances up at the skirt of the balloon.

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. He hasn’t felt this cornered since Íþróttaálfurinn chased him through Lazy Town, popping up around every building that Glanni tried to flee behind. He flexes his fingers and fights to stay composed.

There’s not a whole lot he can do in this situation, and Íþróttaálfurinn probably knows it. 

“What was your plan anyways,” he relents. “There’s not a subtle bone in your body. You were just going to, what, fly right to Mayhem Town? Land your balloon in plain sight to let me off? Broadcast your presence so widely that even those on the lowest rung of the gang’s ladder knew to go underground?”

“I wasn’t going to land in the town. Do you really think so lowly of me?”

“I think that you don’t know how to be sneaky, which is a rather vital skill in the sort of subterfuge you need in order to achieve your end goal.” Ideas twist and turn in his mind, half-formed and far from perfect. He sits back down in the basket, pulling his knees up to his chest, and stares pointedly away from Íþróttaálfurinn. Since there’s very limited space that means he’s staring at his suitcase.

Clothes. Dressing up. Disguises. Slipping another persona on as easily as a coat for show and gratification. Make up and heels and gleaming jewelry. Old friends who’d shared enough similarities with him that Glanni had actually enjoyed their company.

Íþróttaálfurinn is a stubborn bastard and if he’s set on Glanni helping him then there’s very little Glanni can do to remove himself from this unfortunate affair. Case and point; he’s already been abducted once, who’s to say Íþróttaálfurinn wouldn’t do it again? And Glanni hates actively running; having to look over his shoulder all the time, not knowing which direction his attacker will come from. So fine, he’ll help, if only to avoid the terrible alternative. But if he’s being strong-armed into this then he’s at least going to do some things his way.

And he wants this over with as quickly as possible, which means he’s going to need to take advantage of every ace up his sleeve that he’s ever managed to hide away, and cash in every favor he’s ever been owed. A list of names flickers through his mind. Not all of them owe him favors; some of them he’ll have to sway with bribery and charm to get what he needs from them. 

This is bound to be terrible. 

“Take us to Greedy Town. I’ve got a little foxhole for myself there, I’ll need to pick up some things. It’ll be better for me if you land in the center of town, show off a bit, you know, your usual.”

“You expect me to let you go off by yourself?” Disbelief colours Íþróttaálfurinn’s tone.

“Yes. Not to put too fine a point on it but I’m not really in the mood to be running today.” He pauses to give Íþróttaálfurinn a look of great significance, and ignores the way he starts sputtering about how he’d tried to help with that last night. “Plus you know that if I run you’ll be able to catch me, you utter nuisance.”

They bicker for what feels like ages until Íþróttaálfurinn finally rolls his eyes and says, “If you make me regret this you’ll be in for a world of pain.”

“Do be careful, your promises might get me all hot and bothered,” Glanni snaps as he digs into the front pouch of his suitcase to grab one of his makeup pallets. He flips it open and cringes at the reflection the small mirror provides, then digs around for a packet of face wipes. 

It’s as he’s scrubbing away at his smudged mascara that he realizes that he is, definitely, wearing underwear even though his underwear from last night most assuredly did not live to see another day. He casts a sly glace up at Íþróttaálfurinn’s back.

“Did you dig through a lot of my things while finding me new underwear? You didn’t take anything for yourself, did you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn seems to prefer ignoring him. Glanni kicks his ankle.

“If I’m missing anything when I tally up my stuff I’m assuming that you took something as a memento. I’m almost proud of you, stealing from me while I’m sleeping—“

“Crime is crime, you shouldn’t be proud of theft if you’re opposed to kidnapping.”

“—but if it ends up being something expensive I will not be happy. Expensive things are the most difficult to steal.”

“The more you talk,” Íþróttaálfurinn grits out, “the deeper of a hole you dig for yourself.”

“I’m an overachiever by nature.” He drawls. “Also, I have standards, you ass. I’m mainly a cat-burglar by trade, you see, and kidnappers are on a wrung below me on the ladder of morality.”

Íþróttaálfurinn turns to him, a deep frown tugging at his lips, eyebrows furrowing in evident anger. “You allowed innocent children to be thrown into jail for crimes you committed. You also locked a bunch of kids in a warehouse and forced them to work without wages in order to produce a meal substitute for you to get rich off of.”

“Yes I did. As I recall, the townsfolk were completely fine with those girls being imprisoned.” Glanni crosses his arms. “And those kids entered my warehouse of their own accord.”

Íþróttaálfurinn sighs explosively and casts his eyes upwards, as if he’s praying for patience or having second thoughts about his terrible idea already. Glanni pops open his suitcase to dig out a shirt that hasn’t been stretched to the point of ruin. He pulls on a navy button up and switches out his heeled boots for loafers. Last night he had wanted to accentuate his height, legs, and ass to stand out even more than usual, but today he can’t quite afford to be the center of attention.

He lovingly puts his boots away and then takes a moment to look around the small, enclosed space that he’s stuck in. There aren’t a whole lot of personal items. Íþróttaálfurinn travels light, but Glanni is almost sure that he’s heard that sometimes the elf will stick around a town for a week or more at a time before he heads back to wherever his home is.

And yet the elf doesn’t seem to have a wide variety of clothing at his fingertips. Come to think of it, Glanni’s never seen him in anything except for the outfit he is currently wearing.

Does he wear the same thing? Every single day?

Glanni’s lips curl in a disbelieving sneer, even as he feels them begin to descend.

They must be right over Greedy Town.

“Right.” He stands. “You do your thing; jump around, act like you care about Greedy Town not living up to its name, whatever. When you leave mention that you’re going to Liar Town, or Bully Town, or literally anywhere except for Mayhem Town. Then fly your little balloon out to the farm fields north of here and I’ll meet you there this afternoon.”

“Anything else?” Íþróttaálfurinn cocks an eyebrow at him, unamused at the orders.

“How do you feel about shaving off that moustache?”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s expression turns to one of outright horror. 

“Then no, I’ll figure out something else.” It’s just Glanni’s luck that he has such unique facial hair. Forget the ears, which are at least covered by his hat and can potentially be covered by his loose curls, Íþróttaálfurinn sticks out in any crowd based on his moustache alone. 

They get low enough that Íþróttaálfurinn feels comfortable standing up on the side of the basket and doing a forward flip to the ground, prompting a lot of excited shouting from below. Glanni tries to keep still until the rocking subsides, and he peeks over to make sure that everyone’s attention is on the elf before he inelegantly climbs out of the balloon and makes his way downtown.

He’ll need to be quick, because he doubts the elf will provide a distraction for long enough for him to pick up everything he needs. He slips into one store, plucks a pair of designer glasses from a display and briefly checks them out to make sure the lenses are just normal glass before seemingly moving on to another pair. The shop clerks at the front begin to speak excitedly to each other as Glanni crosses over to the other side of the store, glancing through racks of ties until an opportune moment comes up for him to wrap the glasses in a tie and slide them, low to the ground, past the shoplifting detectors just as someone else walks in the store.

The woman pauses as the clerks stop talking to look at her, and then one offers an explanation of, “if you bought that coat from us and didn’t take out the tag on the inside seam then that could be enough to set those off. Here, I can cut it out for you.”

Glanni slips past the woman, offers a polite “excuse me,” as he goes, then leans down as if to adjust his pant leg. He walks further down the street, slipping on the glasses and the ivory tie so that his hands are free.

He stops by a craft store next for his simplest, cheapest, and only actual purchase that will conveniently give him a bag to carry everything else around in.

And then he’s ready for the rest of the thievery he’s about to commit in broad daylight.

It’s a testament to his skill, and maybe a little to how popular Íþróttaálfurinn is to these sheep townsfolk, that he is able to pick up what is a half-decent suit by his own high standards, a platinum watch, a box of expensive cigars, and an excellent whisky in the span of two hours without getting caught. He’s strolling quickly through the downtown, since looking as though he has somewhere to be is the best way to keep people from attempting to engage him, and he passes by the boutique that he’d stolen his boots at.

He pauses momentarily, always happy to make some time to fully appreciate footwear, when he sees something that catches his eye.

The colour doesn’t suit him, and the style isn’t the sort of thing he generally wears; it’s more cute than it is sexy, but…

It would be rude of him to show up without a gift after all these years, wouldn’t it?

He slips inside the store, the perfect picture of a doting boyfriend just wanting to buy his girlfriend a special pair of shoes for her birthday. He slips out after charming the shopkeeper with tales of their whirlwind romance one pair of shoes richer and the shopkeeper none the wiser. 

Time well spent, in other words.

He heads north, eventually the well paved roads of the downtown become the slightly less flashy residential streets, and then he’s kicking up dust on a dirt road that leads to the rural areas of Greedy Town; the outlying farms and vineyards. He keeps his eyes on the sky, looking out for the balloon of his nightmares, and after far too much walking for a single day he finally settles down outside of a somewhat dilapidated barn. It smells disgustingly of animal and soil, but there’s a much newer building off in the distance, which means that this is probably abandoned, and it’s likely the best shelter he’ll be able to get.

He only hopes when the fool-elf lands he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself out here in no-man’s-land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theft. How does it work?


	6. Armistice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for the day where I can start writing _time skips_ , which with any luck will be a only a few chapters from now.
> 
> And here's just a heads-up that the next update could take a few weeks due to real-life responsibilities taking up all of my time for the next little bit.

Íþróttaálfurinn takes far too long to remove himself from the clutches of the Greedy Town masses. When Glanni finally catches sight of his balloon in the sky a few of the brighter stars are already visible on the horizon and Glanni is furious at being made to wait inside something so abhorrent as an abandoned barn for so long. He yells a few choice curses to the sky, too angry to worry about the possibility of anyone other than Íþróttaálfurinn hearing him, and paces around in the grass impatiently as the balloon descends.

He doesn’t give Íþróttaálfurinn a chance to speak when he anchors the balloon and jumps out of it.

“This afternoon, I said. Not this evening. Not tonight. This. Afternoon. Was that so difficult to understand?”

“I thought you would appreciate me moving under the cover of darkness,” Íþróttaálfurinn answers back evenly. “It seemed sneakier this way.”

Glanni hisses through his teeth, Íþróttaálfurinn is unmoved by the sound.

“Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes I did.”

“Good, then we can settle down here for the night and head to Mayhem Town in the morning.” He leaps into the basket to take out a few blankets and drops down Glanni’s suitcase.

Glanni takes the handle and tugs it inside with a huff. He in no way has any sleeping garment fit to be worn here, but he’ll have to make due somehow.

He takes off his loafers and strips out of his shirt, carefully folding the fabric and placing it into the clean interior of the suitcase as Íþróttaálfurinn trails in through the door.

Íþróttaálfurinn stops, and Glanni can practically feel his gaze tracing over the multitude of busies that he’d left behind around Glanni’s throat and collarbones.

Glanni’s mouth goes curiously dry, and he suddenly remembers Íþróttaálfurinn mentioning something about a ‘some other time’ last night.

“If you even so much as think about fucking me in a barn—“

“You’ll murder me, yes, so you keep saying.” Íþróttaálfurinn lays the first blanket out over the wooden planks below them. Glanni slips into his ruined sweater and keeps his pants on. It’s not like he’ll ever wear either of them again after this anyways. The pants had shown promise, but now they reek of farm and are thus in just as much disrepair as the sweater.

Glanni sits down on the blanket and pulls out the project he’s been toying with while waiting for Íþróttaálfurinn to show up.

“What are you working on?”

“A disguise.”

Íþróttaálfurinn peers a little closer, eyebrows furrowing. “What is it?”

“A fake beard. For you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn snaps his eyes back up to meet Glanni’s. “For me? I do not wear disguises. I am as I am, I have no need for deceit.”

Glanni snorts. “So you say. Remember the thing called subterfuge that we’ve spoken about? We’re going to need a bit more of that, and since you seem reluctant to get rid of your ridiculous moustache then the least we can do is cover it up with something else.”

“Surely I can manage without, wouldn’t it be suspicious to your contacts if you showed up with a stranger anyways? I was thinking that we could have daily check-ins while I worked alongside the police. Wouldn’t having more attention shifted towards me make it easier for you?”

Glanni is unmoved.

“Am I to take that to mean that you wanted to send me into the belly of the beast on my own?”

“That is not what I meant.”

Íþróttaálfurinn argues and fusses; Glanni puts his foot down resolutely.

“I told you before, and today only serves to prove it. People flock to you, those misguided souls. You garner way too much attention as yourself and no, you showing off that you’re working with the police will not help me. I will strip you bare and build you up into someone else and you will go along with it because if I get killed because someone recognizes you and sees me working with you then my ghost is going to torture you for the rest of your cursed life. Do you understand?”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s expression doesn’t soften, exactly, but it does become slightly more understanding. “I wouldn’t let you die, Glæpur.”

“That’s sweet, really, there are tears in my eyes. Do. You. Understand?”

Íþróttaálfurinn crosses his arms in a move that reads as petulant, but nods. Glanni grits his teeth and he has to force himself from clenching his hands into fists and possibly ruining his work.

“And since the lines of communication are open I would just like to remind you that in the past twenty four hours you have not only blackmailed me into giving you information, but also decided to kidnap me like I only exist to bend to your whims. You want to have my help? Fine. But when I tell you things you are going to listen to me, when I have ideas you are not just going to brush them aside because it’s not your usual shtick, and if there is a point during this damned crusade that I think you’re leading me to my demise, well, perhaps it will turn out that I’d rather run from you and the police for the rest of my life than never run again.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s face is grim, and his nod this time is more solemn. 

Glanni let’s out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He’s not sure what he’d have done if Íþróttaálfurinn had outright refused to go along with any of his ideas. Attempted to sneak away in the night, maybe, or try and lose him once they got to Mayhem Town.

But Íþróttaálfurinn would just chase him, corner him, catch him. Glanni sucks a breath in through his teeth.

“I want to draft up a formal agreement.”

Íþróttaálfurinn blinks at him in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“We may have fucked,” the word drips out of his mouth, honey-sweet, “but that does not in any way mean that I trust you. You’ve already broken a verbal agreement between us. I gave you information and you were supposed to tell the police where I was this morning, but you changed the terms as the situation progressed without notifying me. I need something more concrete, binding, something that you won’t try and get around as it suits your fancy.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s face goes sullen, as if he’s upset that there is someone who refuses to believe that a hero’s word is his bond. He curiously does not bring up how Glanni himself is, obviously, not the most trustworthy individual around. 

“I see.” The elf sits down beside him on a blanket, and something in the very air seems to stir at the weight of his words. “What would be your conditions?”

“I don’t care if the police try and catch me.” Because he’s smart enough to keep out of the reach of the police, and can make sure he’s far enough ahead to get away in the nick of time. “But if I do this for you, work with you, everything unlawful that I have done before this is not something that you can run me down for. Not what happened in Lazy Town, not what I did before then, not what I’ve done since, not even what I might have to do in order for this suicide mission of yours to succeed. Should the police catch me and decide to charge me for past offenses, fine. But you. You cannot come after me for anything that happened before we worked together.”

It’s a risk. He’s not sure if Íþróttaálfurinn will agree; he’s effectively telling him to look the other way unless he has concrete proof that Glanni has done something illegal after they part ways.

“Glæpur, I do not believe for one moment that you are going to turn a new leaf after this.”

“Take me to the police now, then, and do this on your own.”

He’ll make due somehow if that’s the path Íþróttaálfurinn chooses to take. He’s escaped from captivity before; vanished like a plume of smoke before he could be taken to a more secure holding facility, and he’ll do everything he can to recreate his prior success. 

Íþróttaálfurinn frowns and seems to weigh the pros and cons of the situation in his head. 

Worse criminals than Glanni, that’s what he thought of the Mayhem Town Gang, but would that be enough of a reason for him to give into Glanni’s demands?

“I have my own conditions.” 

Glanni very carefully does not let a look of relief cross his face.

“And those would be?”

“This is an equal partnership; I will listen to what you have to say, but you must also listen to me. And you mustn’t be half-hearted about this. I know what you can do when you put your mind to it, I expect the same level of dedication from you in this as you would put in one of your own schemes.”

That last part almost sounds like a compliment.

“Is that all?”

Íþróttaálfurinn nods.

“Good. Shall we make this a blood-pact then? I’ve still got that knife in my boot.”

“… Glæpur,” Íþróttaálfurinn starts cautiously, eyeing Glanni as if he’s not sure the criminal is completely with it, “when you say the words ‘blood pact’, what exactly are you thinking about?”

“You know; we slice open our palms, press them together, maybe you make some sort of incantation.” Glanni waves his hand, fingers wiggling. “Magic ensues. I’m not exactly looking forward to pain, but I’ll do what I must.”

“That. Really is not necessary. And is a terrible idea for a multitude of reasons.”

“Well excuse me for not knowing. What would you suggest if my idea is such a terrible one?”

“I imagine you’d protest to a written contract.”

“Written? So that someone else could see it? I think not.”

“Then all we have are words. We shall have to trust each other.” He holds out a hand to be shook, a mirror of the gesture he’d done last night. 

Glanni reluctantly takes hold of the offered hand.

“I promise to honor the terms of our verbal contract,” Íþróttaálfurinn tells him seriously, and there’s a slight reverberation underlying his words.

“As do I,” Glanni says, and he shakes their hands in a markedly set rhythm while murmuring in time with the movement under his breath, “Cross my heart and hope to die, if you’re lying I’ll make you swallow needles till you die.”

Íþróttaálfurinn‘s fingers twitch at the words, but he ultimately chooses not to comment on them.

Their hands fall apart, and Glanni quickly turns his attention back to his work.

Neither of them make any attempts at conversation, although from the corner of his eye Glanni can see Íþróttaálfurinn stare at him every so often, as if the elf is surprised by how little of a fuss Glanni has made since his initial uproar when he had first woken up.

This arrangement, terribly thought out though it may be—and Glanni’s going to have to do something about that as soon as possible—is beneficial enough to him that he’s not going to waste time arguing when he has work to do, plans to concoct, disguises to mule over, and an identity to create.

Not an identity for himself, for once. He’s never had to wholly turn someone who was not him into someone else before, never stood before another person and directed them on how to dress and act, how to move their body, how to speak, what to say, what to do. At most he’d given straightforward advice.

None of that simple guidance—make eye contact, smile, mirror the body language of who you’re talking to, draw their eyes to other movements so they don’t see you taking their wallet—would be enough for Íþróttaálfurinn to actually pass off as what Glanni would need him to, and he suspects he doesn’t have much time to lay down the types of ground rules they’re going to need so that their cover isn’t blown, considering how eager Íþróttaálfurinn is to jump at the problem before him,

Glanni hopes that Íþróttaálfurinn can at least manage a somewhat believable ‘strong, silent type’ for the first couple of days as they establish themselves in town.

His mind is still abuzz with ideas and increasingly convoluted trains of thought when he settles down to go to sleep. His eyes flicker with movement beneath his eyelids as he mentally sorts through a list of names; not just enforcers they’ll need to track down, known crooked cops, old associates who he may be able to charm information from, or people who owe him a debt, but also people, or at least, one person, who might be glad to see him again.

Glanni’s never had very many friends and he loathes the idea of sharing even a mundane part of his past with Íþróttaálfurinn, but he hasn’t set foot in Mayhem Town in years and they’ll need more information than what Glanni has on hand if everything is to turn out right.

It will be nice to work with her again, though. The thought actually brings something like a smile to his lips. 

They were once two sides of the same coin, after all.

His thoughts are interrupted by a soft chiming; a bell-like sound that would almost be soothing if it weren’t so sudden and uncanny.

“What is that,” he asks aloud, not actually expecting an answer, jerking in surprise when Íþróttaálfurinn speaks up.

“My crystal.” Íþróttaálfurinn shifts, his fingers grazing over a small bauble sewn into the tip of his hat. “It tells me when there’s trouble, and where it is. It’s been going off a lot lately for Mayhem Town.”

Another piece of information to file away, another thing he’s going to have to work around. 

The chimes fade away and Glanni can’t quite bring himself to ask if it’s usual for the sound to stop on it’s own, or if it happens when the situation somehow resolves itself. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night for either of them.


	7. Circling the Outskirts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, rising up from the depths: Wow it's been a while let's see if I can manage to fall back into this.

Once again Glanni is awoken by Íþróttaálfurinn far too early in the morning, this time with the added bonus of light from a lantern burning his retinas as soon as he opens his eyes. He snaps and snarls as he is forced to his feet, and when that seems to do nothing to make Íþróttaálfurinn re-think his actions he growls lowly in his throat.

Íþróttaálfurinn does actually pause at the sound, if only momentarily. 

“Do you practice making that noise? Or does it just come naturally to you?”

“I hate you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn frowns at him. “I believe we’ve gone over this before. We do not have to like each other in order to work together. Believe me, I would appreciate it if we could go through this as quickly as is possible while still keeping safe.”

Glanni lets out a harsh laugh. “United with a common goal of never seeing each other again. I can work with that.” He throws his arms over his head and bends back, hips moving forward to counterbalance himself, and there are a series of pops and cracks that go off as his vertebrae shift.

Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips twist at the sound.

Glanni lowers his arms and stares at the inky darkness beyond the open barn door. “It’s pitch black outside. What time is it?”

“Time to get going if we are to be settled outside of Mayhem Town before it is light enough outside that anyone can see my balloon on the horizon. You can sleep in the basket if you have to, just get moving.”

“What’s the plan? Where are you landing the balloon? How far out of town will it be?” Glanni’s head lulls to the side tiredly. “And should I get dressed now or later? I’m not ashamed of nakedness, but I’d prefer to have some sort of cover when I strip down.”

Íþróttaálfurinn settles his hands on Glanni’s upper back, forcefully guiding him out the door. “I will tell you the plan when you are awake enough to process the plan. And do not worry; I have a friend who lives just outside of Mayhem Town. I can deflate the balloon and leave it with them for the time being, they’re trustworthy.”

Glanni digs his heels into the ground and turns his head to give Íþróttaálfurinn a deadpan stare. “Why must you be so willfully vague?” He yawns. “And I have my own plans on how this day is going to go, which I’m sure are better than yours.”

“Really?” Íþróttaálfurinn’s tone is dry, and Glanni tries to reach back to smack him without success.

“Yes, really.” He yawns again. “We should enter the town from the west. The west side will be safest.”

“West?” Íþróttaálfurinn pauses behind him momentarily. “Glæpur, how long has it been since you actually set foot in Mayhem Town?”

Glanni leans heavily against Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands, half due to exhaustion and half to be a pain. “Not long enough that the west won’t have a certain amount of protection.” It had always been the safest part of town, even safer than the gaudy, gated community in the south side.

“I’ll take your suggestion into consideration, but I really don’t think any side of town is safer than any other nowadays. I was there just two weeks ago, and it’s the same everywhere.”

“Well, you’d be wrong.” Or at least, Glanni hopes he’s wrong. If it turns out that Íþróttaálfurinn knows Mayhem Town better than he does Glanni may have to curl up in shame. 

“Just get in the basket, Glæpur, or I will physically put you in the basket.”

“The romance is dead,” Glanni falls into the basket with all the grace of a newborn fawn, pleased to see that his things have already been gathered up and deposited inside.

He is less pleased when Íþróttaálfurinn drops a pair of folded blankets on top of his head. Íþróttaálfurinn leaps in immediately after, easily landing on the opposite side.

Glanni contemplates trying to kick the elf’s feet out from underneath him, but ultimately decides that a better use of his time is to burrow himself within the blankets. He doesn’t really fall asleep, his mind is awake and buzzing too much for him to drift off again, but the physical stillness that settles over him like a shroud is somewhat restful.

Plus if he’s still enough and keeps his breathing even then Íþróttaálfurinn will probably think he’s asleep, and maybe listening in on him when he’s unaware that he’s being heard will give Glanni some sort of ammunition that can be used against him later, should the need arise.

Unfortunately Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t talk to himself about anything useful, just occasionally says something about the wind or the balloon’s current course.

He does seem to move around an awful lot though. His light footfalls cause gentle vibrations that make Glanni’s heart feel like it’s about to go into a free-fall with the rest of his body.

Glanni vows that he will never fly again. He won’t allow it. Íþróttaálfurinn would have to drag him kicking and screaming, biting and scratching.

He keeps his eyes firmly closed as they land, even as Íþróttaálfurinn gathers up most of their things and leaps out of the balloon, apparently content with leaving Glanni to sleep while he does the grunt work. 

It makes Glanni wonder why he’d bothered waking him up to get him in the balloon in the first place, since he’s so obviously capable of carrying him.

Then he remembers his reaction to waking up while already in the air yesterday, far from the place he’d fallen asleep, and decides that maybe Íþróttaálfurinn hadn’t made the most terrible choice that he could have.

He stays as he is for a handful of minutes, gathering up the willpower that he’s going to need to face what is sure to be a hell of a day, and he only sits up when he can start to hear the muffled sound of voices. He gets to his knees to peer over the side of the basket and sees a multitude of lights in the distance.

Mayhem Town.

“Ah, you’re awake, good. Get out of the basket so I deflate the balloon,” Íþróttaálfurinn orders and Glanni turns to him, snappy reply on the tip of his tongue.

He chokes on his own words when he sees what Íþróttaálfurinn is wearing. Faded, ill-fitting denim overalls over a flannel shirt. His hat still on.

“No.”

“No?”

Glanni gets out of the basket and stomps over to Íþróttaálfurinn, gesturing to the clothing pointedly.

“No. This will not do. This will not work. What sort of disguise is this?”

Íþróttaálfurinn looks down at himself curiously. “It’s different from what I usually wear. This plus what you made for me will be good enough, right?”

Glanni takes a moment to rest his face in his hands.

“I already picked something out for you, and you are going to wear it. I don’t care if you don’t like it, I refuse to be seen with you while you’re in that.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

Glanni glares at Íþróttaálfurinn through his fingers, then lets his hands fall away with a huff.

“Íþróttaálfurinn, dear,” he drawls, “you’re going to be seen with me. Anyone who knows me will zero in on you and know that something not right is going on, I prefer my partners to have some sense of style.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands, which had been fiddling with the clasps on his overalls, go still. 

“Partners?”

“You know; partners in crime, partners in other aspects of life, that sort of thing. If you’re going to be consistently seen with me, well, people are going to talk, and it’s safer if they assume there’s a close connection of some sort between us.” Glanni leans his upper body into the basket and pulls out his bag from the previous day, then finds where Íþróttaálfurinn had put his suitcase to dig out one of his makeup pallets as well. “We could play your presence a couple of ways, really. There is a limited set of reasons why I willingly spend a lot of time around people.” 

“Oh?”

“I actually think of them as a companion worth my time, I want to fuck them, or I want something from them.” Glanni turns and gives Íþróttaálfurinn a haughty, assessing look. “Obviously the first one is out of the question.”

Íþróttaálfurinn snorts.

“The last might be a little difficult to pull off, because if I play it like I’m conning you then people will want to know what for, and if they can’t find information on you, which they will most assuredly make attempts at to see if you’re worth stealing away, then suspicion is going to spread and they’ll likely think that you’re an undercover cop.”

The elf raises a single eyebrow at him. “You want us to pretend to be lovers, then?”

“Lovers is such a terrible term, and unrealistic. Friends with benefits, perhaps.”

“Glæpur,” Íþróttaálfurinn’s voice sounds oddly tentative, “I’m not sure if I’ll be very convincing. I’m not used to…” He waves a hand in the air, vaguely gesturing in Glanni’s direction.

Glanni picks up his meaning easily enough.

“Don’t sell yourself short, elf. You and I have something very special which will translate very well in this situation.”

Íþróttaálfurinn crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side. “We’re united with a common goal?”

“… No. We banter. It may not seem like much, but the back and forth that we fall into has a certain familiarity to it. Remember how I told you in the bar that people were leaving us alone because we were obviously flirting? I wasn’t lying.” 

“You’re saying that people will think we’re together because we irritate each other and refuse to let the other have the last word?”

“Oh, most definitely. It’s no fun being with someone who caters to your every whim, I need someone who can push back,” Glanni lets his voice drop to a purr, Íþróttaálfurinn cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Just trust me on this, Íþróttaálfurinn. Play the strong silent type when we’re in large groups. Don’t speak to people who aren’t me unless you absolutely have to. But if the pair of us happen to have small, trifling arguments from time to time, well, the people who know me aren’t going to think it odd that I’m with someone who has the ability to keep me on my toes.”

He wraps an arm around Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulders and grins down at him, a dark glint in his gaze.

“Now then, let’s get you out of this and into something that actually fits you.”

He herds Íþróttaálfurinn inside the farmhouse, finds an empty bedroom to sequester themselves in, and orders him to strip.

Íþróttaálfurinn huffs but undoes the clasps of his overalls without much fuss otherwise. He steps out of the denim and undoes the buttons of his shirt, eyes trailing over Glanni curiously as the man pulls out the items he’d picked up the previous day.

“You just happened to have a suit in your foxhole?” Íþróttaálfurinn’s voice is heavily laced with doubt. “… Are you even sure it’s going to fit me?”

Glanni sends him a dry look. “I have seen you shirtless and had my arms wrapped around your shoulders. I know it’s going to fit you. I’m very good at this sort of thing.” He takes a single moment to appreciate the amount of skin carelessly on display before handing the suit over and turning back to the stockpile of items he’d brought inside. “Put this on, I need to set up the glue for your beard.”

“You don’t plan on putting actual glue on my face, do you?” Íþróttaálfurinn’s voice is muffled by fabric. “Because I am somewhat opposed to that idea.”

“It’s not the white glue that schoolchildren use for arts and crafts, if that’s what you’re worried about. Please. As if I’d use something cheap and ineffective like that to adhere fake facial hair onto you. I do actually need this to look convincing. That is, in fact, the point of disguises. Now then.” He turns back around, eyeing Íþróttaálfurinn up and down critically. “Do you know how to tie a tie or should I put it on for you?”

“A tie,” Íþróttaálfurinn repeats, sounding aghast. “You want me to wear a tie?”

Glanni rolls his eyes. “I’ll take that as a no.” He loops the fabric around Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck, nimble fingers quickly tying a simple Half Windsor knot. “There we are. You’re looking almost dapper already.”

Íþróttaálfurinn purses his lips, eyebrows furrowing as if he’s not certain whether or not Glanni is poking fun at him.

Glanni ignores his expression in favor of settling his hands upon broad shoulders and directing Íþróttaálfurinn to sit on the bed.

Adhering the fake hair is a lengthy process, but it doesn’t look terrible by the time Glanni is done, which is a small miracle. He uses some eye shadow to fill in Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyebrows, giving them a slight downturn in the hopes that it will make his expression more closed off and unapproachable. Once he’s happy with his work he unfolds the glasses he had stolen and hooks the earpieces over Íþróttaálfurinn’s ears, then digs his fingers into the fabric of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hat to take it off his hair, and then he leans back to inspect his work.

Íþróttaálfurinn frowns up at him, feet tapping against the hardwood floor in either irritation or a compulsion to keep moving.

“Not bad.” Glanni looks him up and down critically. “We’ll have to find you a different hat. Your hair doesn’t cover your ears as well as I thought it would.”

Íþróttaálfurinn lifts a hand up to scratch at his jaw and Glanni quickly slaps it away.

“No. Don’t touch it.”

“My face itches.”

“Breathe through it, it build characters.”

Íþróttaálfurinn closes his eyes and sighs explosively. Glanni tries not to let the amusement he feels show on his face too blatantly.

“I’ll find some way to deal with your crystal, but for now just fold your hat up and tuck it into a pocket.” He hands Íþróttaálfurinn’s hat back to him. “And then we just need to nab something respectable to cover up your ears.”

“We do not need to ‘nab’ something, Glæpur, we simply have to ask for it,” Íþróttaálfurinn explains in a weary tone. Glanni crosses his arms and hums in disinterest.

“Sounds boring but fine, we’ll do it your way.” He stretches his arms above his head languidly. “And you’re going to have to stop referring to me by my last name, calling me Glæpur all the time doesn’t really fit in with what we’re aiming for. We’ll have to find a name for you too.” He taps his fingers against his mouth before a wicked grin spreads across his lips. “How about Jóhann?”

Íþróttaálfurinn glares. “Do not push me Glæp—Glanni,” he corrects quickly, raising himself to his feet and brushing past Glanni on his way to the door. “I’ll think of something suitable to use.”

He swings the door open and strolls down the hall, Glanni following at his heels, until he reaches the kitchen where a woman is cutting thick slices of bread. She pauses her work when she hears him walk in and turns to look at him.

“Íþróttaálfurinn.” She stares at the elf, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline. “You look… Different. And angry.”

Íþróttaálfurinn sighs again, Glanni bites back a laugh. 

“Could we borrow a hat? Just so I can cover up.” He gestures to his ears and the woman nods, using the bread knife to gesture down the opposite hallway.

“The mudroom’s down that way, there’ll be some old coats and hats hung up, you can borrow whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Íþróttaálfurinn says with a smile. “I appreciate it.”

The mudroom is, well, a room full of outdoor gear that you wouldn’t want being tracked into your house. Filthy boots line the floor underneath a bench and worn coats are hung up on hooks, and after a little digging Glanni finds a decent enough flat cap and sets in on Íþróttaálfurinn’s head, making sure to tuck his ears underneath the edges.

“There we are. You look…” He trails off, trying to figure out what exactly Íþróttaálfurinn reminded him of. “Like a modern dandy, or a high class sheep farmer.”

“I don’t know if you mean either of those things as compliments, but farming is a respectable profession so I shall take it as one.”

Glanni snorts, Íþróttaálfurinn furrows his eyebrows at the sound.

“I’m going to go deflate the balloon, you should get dressed. After that we can make our way into Mayhem Town. We’ll enter through the west, since you’re so adamant about it, and when we get there you can call me…” He trails off, eyes flickering around the room briefly, as if drawing inspiration from the aged outerwear. “Karl.”

“Well then, Karl, I hope you’re ready for the days that lie ahead of us.” Glanni’s eyes flicker towards the windows of the mudroom, searching out the distant lights of town. “Because if you’re not then I don’t see this ending in our favor at all.”

“You must learn to have faith, Glanni,” Íþróttaálfurinn replies with a straight face before he steps out of the mudroom.

Glanni sighs and rubs a hand against his temple.

“Faith, ha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ithro: Friends will do you favours if you ask nicely  
> Glanni: Sounds fake, but okay


	8. Lay the Foundation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow updating continues. (On the bright side: I have an interview to prepare for!!! On the not so bright side: I have to get a certain percentage on a math test prior to the interview for the interview to actually take place, so, studying again.)
> 
> Another shorter chapter with Ithro's pov. Someday we may actually get a full chapter from his side, someday...

The early morning at the farmhouse passes by with a flurry of activity as they prepare themselves for the oncoming day. Deflating and putting away his balloon takes up more time than he would like, and the only time Íþróttaálfurinn sits still is when Sara forcefully pushes him into a chair and gives him a firm look before setting a plate in front of him. 

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” she reminds him pointedly, and Glanni seems to nearly choke on his scrambled eggs. Possibly because he finds it funny that Íþróttaálfurinn would have to be reminded of such a thing.

Sara sends an amused look Glanni’s way.

“You boys finish up and put the plates in the sink once you’re done. I’m going to go get the truck out of the garage in a few minutes and then I’ll meet you out front.”

Íþróttaálfurinn thanks her again while Glanni hums in assent. Then Glanni turns his attention towards the steaming mug laid out beside him.

He tries to look unfazed, but he’s fairly certain that his face is giving something away when he watches Glanni stir five spoons of sugar into his coffee. Especially when Glanni catches his eye, pauses for a brief moment, and then grins and adds another heaping spoonful. 

Glanni doesn’t even make an attempt to mask the blatant vindictive pleasure he broadcasts as he drinks his coffee, watching Íþróttaálfurinn watch him.

When he downs the last of his drink Íþróttaálfurinn has to fight off a full-body shudder. 

Glanni locks eyes with him and the smirk he’s wearing, like he’s so sure that he has the upper hand, makes Íþróttaálfurinn want to do something reckless. Grab Glanni’s face between his hands and hold him still, watch his expressions shift as Glanni tries to work out whether Íþróttaálfurinn means to use the touch as an intimidation tactic or if he’s going in for a kiss—

“Does anyone else know how easy it is to distress you? Have there been criminals that you’ve been unable to catch because they started eating sugar cubes in front of you?”

The mental image is enough to snap Íþróttaálfurinn out of his thoughts, which is most assuredly for the best.

“That’s awful. Think about what that would do to your teeth, let alone your body.”

Glanni rolls his eyes and gathers up his dishware before standing. Íþróttaálfurinn is almost surprised to see him following Sara’s instructions so easily, despite the scant amount of effort involved.

Almost surprised switches quickly to actual surprise when Glanni starts filling the sink up with water and adds dish soap.

Glanni sends him a pointed look.

“Come along then, Mister Good Samaritan, I’m not doing this all by myself. Give me your plates and then get a dish towel to dry.”

“You’re being oddly helpful,” Íþróttaálfurinn comments, gathering up his plate and cutlery. 

Glanni snorts. “You realize there’s a reason why I resisted helping you, right? Other than my just not liking you, of course. But for someone who not only fed me but also told me about the time where you were so busy playing with sheepdogs that you didn’t notice a goat almost eat your hat?” Glanni sends a purposeful smirk in Íþróttaálfurinn’s direction. “I’m willing to wash a few dishes.”

“He didn’t almost eat my hat,” he finds himself saying as he puts everything into the sink, even if he should probably just let the subject drop, “he just nibbled it a bit.”

Glanni hums, sounding completely unconvinced, and passes Íþróttaálfurinn the first plate to be dried.

“In any case we shouldn’t focus on the past, we’ve got more important things to worry about. I know you don’t particularly like the idea of me touching base with the police, but I have to let at least my main contact know something about what’s going on.”

“I don’t see why. Sounds like too much risk, not enough reward.”

“I won’t do it in person, at least not today. I can send him a message to meet me at a later time, in a secure location.”

“Still don’t see the point of it.”

Íþróttaálfurinn grits his teeth and exhales harshly through his nose. Glanni is quite possibly the most insufferable person he has ever met, and it doesn’t help that he smiles in amusement as he pokes and prods and finds new ways to try and get under his skin.

“You are, in fact, a wanted criminal Glanni. If you’re going to be waltzing around in broad daylight then I need assurance that you’re not going to get dragged off to be arrested or questioned in the middle of something important.”

“Your concern for me is truly heartwarming,” Glanni drawls. “I’m touched, really, but I know how to dodge the authorities. Besides, the places in town that we’ll be frequenting aren’t supervised quite as strictly as they should be. Money goes a long way, you know, and crooked cops aren’t just a figment of someone’s imagination.” 

Íþróttaálfurinn dries the next dish handed to him with an excessive amount of force.

“I know that,” he admits sourly, “but I also know police officers that I could trust with my life. The officer I want to talk to is one such a man.”

Glanni turns to give him a calculating look, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, before turning his attention back to the sink, running cutlery under clean water and then handing them over.

“Why can you trust him?”

“I suppose the fact that I’ve known him for years would mean very little to you.”

“Correct.”

“I saved the life of his husband.”

Glanni stills, a look of contemplation crossing his features as if he’s slowly weighing pros and cons. 

“His husband who, I apparently feel the need to add, he loves very much.”

His expressions shifts slightly at the new information, evidently marriage itself was not proof enough for him that the relationship was deeply important to both parties. 

“And you’ll only be telling this one officer? He’s not going to spread it around to his other cop friends?”

“He won’t if I ask him not to. And there are more rewards than risks when it comes to having someone on the police force knowing what’s going on. Information not available to the public, for one, unless you think that your contacts will know everything that we need to know.”

Glanni sighs and hands Íþróttaálfurinn the mug to be dried, and then pulls the sink’s plug.

“Fine. Just be careful about it, you oaf.”

“I’m always careful.” He dries the mug and sets it down with everything else. “I’m more worried about you being careful. What exactly are your plans for today? Nothing too dangerous right off the bat I hope.”

“Dangerous?” Glanni’s face scrunches up in a way that shouldn’t be anything but unattractive. “I don’t go out of my way to put myself into treacherous situations, and I’d really enjoy it if we could go through this entire situation without having to worry about blunt force trauma or gunshot wounds.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands jerk at just the words. 

“Do you have enemies in Mayhem Town?” He’d assumed that Glanni’s apparent connection to the gang would keep him mostly safe, and dread creeps through him at the idea that he may be incorrect. 

“You don’t need enemies to get shot in Mayhem Town. Though with any luck if anyone does mean us harm they’ll go for you first. You are the more obviously physically intimidating of the pair of us, the more conspicuous threat, they’d likely want to try and get you out of the picture before dealing with me.”

Somehow that makes Íþróttaálfurinn feel better.

“That doesn’t actually answer my question about what you’re planning on doing today.”

Glanni sends him a dry look. Íþróttaálfurinn crosses his arms and frowns up at him, tapping his foot pointedly.

“I’m going to meet up a with a friend.”

“Are they another ‘cat burglar by trade’?”

“No, although she could have been great if crime had turned out to be her true passion.” Glanni sighs, sounding legitimately heartfelt. “She and I went on to follow very different career paths, but she will undoubtedly have information on some of the higher level enforcers in the gang.”

Íþróttaálfurinn wants to ask precisely how that’s possible, if she’s not a criminal and assumedly not involved with the law in any way, but he suspects that if he asks too many questions Glanni’s almost amiable attitude will quickly turn cold.

“I hope that she’s able to answer your questions,” he finds himself saying instead.

He hopes for a lot of things.

“She will.” Glanni side-eyes him as he washes his hands and then, voice shifting into a mimicry of Íþróttaálfurinn’s, he adds, “you must learn to have faith.”

He probably means for the comment to annoy him, but Íþróttaálfurinn feels his lips quirk upward in a smile instead.


	9. Home Again, Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna put this on a hopefully brief hiatus so that I can focus on a different project I've been meaning to get to. Need to overhaul my chapter summaries because this keeps running away with me even when I try and follow my previous outline, gosh.

It isn’t a long drive to Mayhem Town by any means, but oh does it feel like it in the silence of Sara’s truck. Glanni is quite consciously aware of the way both Sara and Íþróttaálfurinn keep looking back at him via the rear-view mirror, and he purses his lips and stares bluntly back at them.

Then Sara notices Íþróttaálfurinn has been glancing at him as well, and her gaze darts between them in an easy to read moment of clarity before her eyes settle back on the road.

“So,” she begins effortlessly as she puts on the brakes at a stop sign, actually waiting a full five seconds before taking the turn that will bring them to the west side of town, “how long is it that you’ve known each other, then?”

“In terms of the amount of time that has passed since our first meeting, or in terms of actual time spent together?” Glanni drawls out the question and Íþróttaálfurinn turns in his seat to give Glanni a very pointed look, obviously wanting him to stop talking.

Glanni scoffs and crosses his arms, staring him straight in the eyes.

“Either option doesn’t mean much I suppose.” Considering the scant amount of time they’d spent with each other before they’d tumbled into bed together. “Time is irrelevant when you have a relationship like ours.”

There’s something very satisfying about making Íþróttaálfurinn look like he wants to tuck and roll right out of the truck, especially when Sara hums under her breath in a knowing fashion.

Íþróttaálfurinn opens his mouth, probably to make an attempt to dispel whatever thoughts Sara is having, but she cuts in before he can start.

“I would have thought you’d have known each other a long time, to be going into Mayhem Town as you are.” She graces Íþróttaálfurinn with a knowing look before meeting Glanni’s eyes in the mirror. “I’m assuming that you don’t actually want me to drop you off in the town?”

“The outskirts will do perfectly, thank you Sara.”

“Fair warning, the west side ain’t quite what it used to be when it comes to being protected. I imagine that you decided to enter through here because of Rannveigsdóttir, but I’ve heard through the grapevine that she hasn’t been as vigilant about her properties over the past few years.”

“I imagined that might happen when I heard the news. Still, even if she’s pulled back some she’s not the sort of woman who would let her businesses go to the dogs. ” Glanni folds his hands together and resolutely looks out the window, watching as the sky on the horizon transitions from deep blues and purple to oranges and peach. “She has too much pride in her work for that. Her presence may not be as blatant as it used to be, but I’m sure she still keeps an eye on what’s hers.”

Or at least that’s what he was banking on.

Íþróttaálfurinn looks between the two of them curiously as Sara rolls to a stop just ahead of where houses start clustering closely together more closely. 

“I suppose this is the end of the line. If you boys need any help I’m just a phone call away.”

“Know how to handle yourself around a gang-filled town?”

Sara turns to look at him. “I have lived a twenty minute drive away from this place for practically my entire life, and it’s never been a particularly peaceful town.” She smiles and it’s sharper than Glanni would have expected from someone who, from what little he’s seen of her, gives off such a maternal aura. “And one of my uncles was a part of Víkingasveitin, he taught me a thing or two about self defense when gang members first started to crop up in town during the early nineties. I don’t think a couple young adults with a knife or two between them would scare me too much.” 

The Viking Squad. The Special Forces.

Oh. Oh, Glanni likes her. He almost wishes she could tag along with them for a little while longer, though all things considered it would be for the best if she wasn’t seen around them, or himself specifically. 

“Sara, it has been a pleasure,” he says as he opens the door of the truck and slides down to the ground, pulling his suitcase along behind him. He shuts the door and gives Íþróttaálfurinn a moment or two to say his own quick goodbyes before he too is leaping to the ground.

Sara backs up and turns around, and Íþróttaálfurinn takes a moment to sentimentally watch her go as the sun peaks out on the horizon. 

If Glanni takes a moment to appreciate the cast of Íþróttaálfurinn’s face in the rose gold light then that’s his own business. Far be it from him to willfully ignore something so visually enthralling.

There was a reason why he moved on from being a pick-pocket to become a cat-burglar.

“Into town we go,” he sighs, hefting up his suitcase and glaring at the much smaller, much lighter pack that Íþróttaálfurinn is carrying with him. The elf doesn’t appear to catch on to his meaningful look, which is a complete shame.

He also starts walking at a quick pace before Glanni can suggest that maybe they switch packs which Glanni, as he struggles to catch up, chooses to interpret as being rude and uncaring.

At least his long legs give him some advantage, though judging by the way Íþróttaálfurinn continues to increase his speed he won’t be able to keep up for long.

“Oh. So good to know that you’re the one leading me to where I need to go,” he spits out in irritation. Íþróttaálfurinn sends a dry look back at him. “Would you stop that? You’re practically jogging.”

“I have a lot of pent up energy.”

“Do lunges or something then, don’t make me have to run to catch up to you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn pauses momentarily, a considering look on his face.

And then he does start doing lunges. Perfect form. On the side of the road.

Glanni runs a hand over his face and prays that no one in the houses that they’re passing by is up to see this highly unusual and conspicuous behavior. 

“Do you interpret everything people say literally? Wait, never mind, of course you do.” Under his breath he hotly mutters, “I have no need for deceit, so surely everyone else says precisely what they mean as well.”

“I can hear you, you know.”

“Good. If you get that suit sweaty or rip the seams before we even get started I am going to shave off your moustache while you’re sleeping.”

Íþróttaálfurinn pauses his lunges and sends Glanni an affronted look.

“Yes, what an awful thing to do, exactly. If you’re so full of energy then you should carry my suitcase too.”

“You could have just asked that in the first place Glanni.” He darts forward to take the suitcase from Glanni’s hand, their fingers brushing for a bare moment before he pulls back. “You make everything unnecessarily difficult.”

“Me?” Glanni holds a hand against his chest. “That may be true. But I don’t want to hear it from you of all people.”

His lips purse in a frown when Íþróttaálfurinn has the audacity to laugh at him.

“In any case, pent up energy or not there’s such a thing as too much attention. If you could pretend to be a normal person when we’re in public areas I would vastly appreciate it.”

“I’ll try, but I am of a people to whom dynamic movement and liveliness is the norm. If I cannot properly exercise outside then you shall perhaps have to avert your eyes when I move without restraint when we are indoors and alone,” Íþróttaálfurinn tells him dryly, “I wouldn’t want my unchecked physical activity to disturb you too greatly.”

There’s a comment, resting right on the tip of Glanni’s tongue, about what else they could do in order to burn up some of that excess energy when they are alone.

It’s too early in the morning for Glanni to be thinking about fisting his hand in Íþróttaálfurinn’s tie and reeling him in for a kiss. It’s also a bad idea in general, and though he does excel at these kinds of schemes he should probably put those sorts of plans on the backburner, or even forget about them all together.

He side-eyes Íþróttaálfurinn, taking a moment to appreciate the draping of fabric over his shoulders and the slight tightness in the sleeves that hint at the well-defined muscles beneath.

On the backburner it is.

Conversation drops off into nothing as they walk into town, Glanni just slightly ahead as he navigates through familiar streets and around recognizable landmarks. He resolutely does not allow himself more than a cursory glance at buildings and alleyways that he could navigate through in total darkness even in the present day, not eager to let Íþróttaálfurinn guess at what memories those places might hold for him.

His pace momentarily slows when they are a block away from their destination, old memories tripping him up enough that Íþróttaálfurinn notices and sends a curious look his way.

Glanni shakes it off, straightens himself out, and stubbornly continues without a word.

The apartment building they come across has a half-decent lock on the ornate front doors that takes Glanni a good ten minutes to pick. Íþróttaálfurinn nervously looks up and down the street the entire time—Glanni doesn’t even bother drawing his attention to the rather obviously placed imitation security camera whose unseeing lens is pointed at the doors— and occasionally hisses under his breath about just phoning the person inside so that they could come down and let them in.

“I don’t own a personal cell phone, do you have any idea what a terrible idea that would be for someone in my profession? I dumped my last burner phone before I settled into Liar Town and I haven’t had the chance to pick up another prepaid cell since.”

Íþróttaálfurinn makes a pained noise.

“Oh, as if you, an elf who has a magical crystal and flies around in a hot air balloon, has a cell phone. Please. You probably don’t even have a credit card, or a suitable ID card.” 

There’s a slight click as the lock gives, and Glanni grins triumphantly.

“Look, I’m perfectly capable of opening doors by myself, who would have thought?”

“Less talking, more moving.” Íþróttaálfurinn holds a door open and gestures for Glanni to step inside.

Glanni slips in, acting natural and not staring up at the functional security camera pointed towards them. Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t quite match his level of composure when he happens to catch sight of it.

“Glanni, there’s a camera.”

“Of course there’s a camera. The one outside is mostly to deter people from dropping their cigarette butts all over the front porch, but this one is actually functional so please stop staring at it suspiciously. It wouldn’t have caught anything from outside the door, it’s just keeping track of who’s coming in and going out.” Glanni nudges Íþróttaálfurinn along, taking stock of the empty foyer as they pass.

Same paint, same furniture, new carpet though, which at least made the place seem a little classier than it had been before.

“Elevators are straight ahead, we’re going to the fourth floor.”

It takes less than two minutes until he’s standing in front of a familiar door, and he maybe takes a little too long to compose himself because Íþróttaálfurinn gives him an odd look before reaching forward and firmly knocking.

The door doesn’t open, not a complete surprise.

Glanni steps up and knocks out a quick, rhythmic beat, like the beginning of a song.

There’s a muffled slam and quick shuffles that start faint and grow loud, and then the door flings open.

Íþróttaálfurinn steps back a little at the force of it, which would be more amusing if Glanni didn’t want to do the exact same thing.

She hasn’t changed much since they’d last seen each other.

It’s kind of comforting.

She sucks in a sharp breath when their eyes lock.

“Glanni Glæpur,” she greets, her eyes focusing on his face sharply and her shoulders going tense.

“Good morning, Rós.”

It’s not necessarily that he didn’t anticipate she might initially be angry with him, but by the time he realizes she’s full-body winding up for a punch it’s too late for him to dodge a solid hit to the jaw.

Still has a fist like tempered steel. Good to know. He should probably be grateful that she didn’t aim for his nose.

“You!” She grabs him by the neck of his shirt and hauls him into her apartment, swiftly shutting the door behind her and leaving Íþróttaálfurinn stranded in the hallway. 

“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, voice somewhat muffled by his hand as he rubs at his aching jaw.

“Don’t get mouthy with me, Glanni. You know what that was for.”

That’s true enough, he supposes.

“You never call, you hardly ever write. The first thing I hear about you in years is something I read in the newspaper about you escaping custody and stealing the president’s car, and then any other news about you is cut off for months!”

“Rós, you know it’s better for you if I—”

“And then you just show up at my door without letting me know in advance that you’re coming over? What is wrong with you?”

“Do we really have time to go over that list?” He drops his hand and attempts a smile.

Rós narrows her eyes at him.

“I brought you shoes.”

She appears unmoved by the declaration, crossing her arms and frowning up at him.

“I also brought eye-candy, but you left him out in the hallway and he’s probably very upset at being separated from me. Could we perhaps let him in?”

She tugs at the neck of his shirt again, the sly glint in her eyes the only bit of expression on her otherwise blank face.

“Is the eye-candy the one who gave you a bunch of goddamn hickies?”

Glanni glances down briefly at the yellowing bruises lining his neck and chest. He sniffs, but doesn’t attempt to shrug away her hand as she peers closer. “That’s the sort of topic that should be discussed over mimosas, don’t you think?” 

She punches his shoulder, a gesture more friendly than not even if she doesn’t hold back her strength at all.

“Let the eye-candy in, then.”

He nods and turns to open up the door. Íþróttaálfurinn steps back quickly, as if to pretend that he hadn’t been pressing an ear against the wood the entire time to try and listen in.

He catches Glanni’s eyes and mouths ‘are you okay?’, when Glanni nods he incredulously adds ‘eye-candy?’.

Glanni chooses to ignore that and steps to the side, waving him in and quickly shutting the door as soon as Íþróttaálfurinn steps through the threshold, leaving the elf to dodge out of the way.

Rós tilts her head to the side and Glanni can tell from the purse of her lips that she’s critically eyeing the cut of his suit, the way the glasses frame his face, his impeccable posture, and a handful of other more subtle details that enable her to, as one might say, separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to men.

Íþróttaálfurinn shifts in the silence, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that puts a delightful hint of strain on the fabric of his sleeves. From the corner of his eye Glanni can see Rós raise her eyebrows slightly before she nods to herself in an approving fashion.

“Rós,” he starts, turning to her fully, “this is Karl.”


End file.
